


Every Intention

by KeelieThompson1



Series: Intentions [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John as Sherlock's son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 47,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeelieThompson1/pseuds/KeelieThompson1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing ever turns out the way you hope, even when you have every intention of doing the right thing. No-one knows this better than the Holmes family as they all deal with the repercussions of James Moriarty's game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Better Places

**Author's Note:**

> http://www.google.co.uk/imgres?start=259&sa=X&biw=1511&bih=637&tbm=isch&tbnid=g2AUJkVmsORjxM:&imgrefurl=http://www.flickr.com/photos/unep_dc/9258684133/&docid=4zojDTCQ1M4laM&imgurl=http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3737/9258684133_9eacb2d3e6_z.jpg&w=640&h=480&ei=515aUsboNMXP0QWxvIFQ&zoom=1&ved=1t:3588,r:61,s:200,i:187&iact=rc&page=13&tbnh=182&tbnw=222&ndsp=22&tx=150.5555419921875&ty=90.77777099609375
> 
> Thank you to Chappysmom for editing this and for being so patient while RL stuff distracted me!

**September 2013**

The view was astounding.

Stopping dead and forgetting about the effort it had taken to walk up to the top of the rocky hill in the sweltering heat, John stared in awe.

"Not what you expected?" a wry voice asked.

"Not even close," John said honestly.

When he'd agreed to this he'd pictured sand. It sounded stupid now; an entire country just made of sand and houses made from some faded, chipped white stone. In John's defence, that was all they really ever showed on television when the news did a report from Afghanistan.

But this…

They were stood at the edge of Band-e Amir park and John was pretty sure he had never seen water such a deep and vivid blue before. It was as if someone had coloured the lakes in with a felt-tip or poured a liquid sapphire.

Surrounding the lakes were deep luscious greens of trees and bushes.

It was hard to believe such colours existed in nature.

"They never show this," John murmured.

"They never show a lot of things," was the bitter reply. "Come on, we only have so long here before we need to return to Kabul and I don't want to waste it with you gawping."

Hefting the rucksack on one shoulder, John gave the view one last longing gaze.

"And put those fucking straps on both shoulders. Don't be a moron, John."

Rolling his eyes, John swung the left strap around and wriggled into it properly. "Did you seriously just bring me out here to see the sights?" he asked curiously.

"Need to meet someone," Bastian replied. "He won't come into the city so I have to pay pilgrim and go to him. Still," he said glancing around. "There are worse places I suppose."

Yeah, John thought looking up at the clear blue sky. There were far worse places.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**London: January 2010**

John nearly walked into Sherlock's coat as the man did an abrupt turn at the front door.

"Stay," Sherlock ordered, waggling a finger at John's face.

"You said I could help," John complained, glaring. It was pissing with rain and he was already at the bloody crime scene.

His father could be an inconsiderate arsehole at times.

Sherlock flapped his hand at John which he had learned to read as 'I'll deal with you later, fourteen is still far too young' and then bounded in the building and up the stairs. Refusing to get wet, John stepped inside and shrugged at Alan who was one of the new officers working under Lestrade.

Squinting up the spiral staircase, John could see the forensics team hovering around. They stood out vividly in the dingy old house; their plastic-y blue contamination suits making them look like something out of a cheap science fiction film. As it was, the house was rotting, an old Victorian build that had been gutted at one point and now simply sat, stagnant and waiting.

It looked like the sort of house that would attract a murderer, John thought as he hunched his shoulders and glanced back out into the rain. The police lines were up and a small crowd were approaching, the flashing lights of the police cars occasionally illuminating the craning necks and eager glances.

"You in or out?" Sally asked as she moved to go past him and into the street.

John shrugged. "Waiting for orders on high," he said with a grin.

Sally glanced up at where Sherlock had gone and, presumably, where the body was. "Poisoning," she said with a shrug. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

It sucked that his dad still made rules about the types of death scenes John was allowed to see.

With a nod, John stepped further in, daring to start climbing the stairs.

"John," came the bellow.

Good job he'd already started up the stairs!

"…consider letting him do this?" Anderson was complaining as John reached the right level.

"Shut up, Anderson," Sherlock huffed from where he lay on the floor, studying the ring of the woman who-

Christ, that was a vivid shade of pink!

Wincing, John shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at Anderson. If there was one thing he had been trained to do well on a crime scene, it was that.

"He's not even wearing a suit," Anderson added as he took in John's appearance.

"He isn't a moron," Sherlock muttered. "Come here," he said, reaching out a hand to John.

A little unsure, John wandered over, peering close.

"See this?" Sherlock asked as he slid the wedding ring off the woman's finger. "What does this tell you about the state of her marriage?"

John reached for it and studied it. "Uh…" he narrowed his gaze at the hand it had come from. "Easy to slide off so…hasn't put on any weight since she married or removes it often?"

Sherlock nodded. "Which is more likely?"

"Oh for God's sake," Anderson huffed. "This is a crime scene, not a classroom."

Sherlock waved him away, as if he were an irritating fly.

It always amused John that Lestrade never said a word when Sherlock did this; John had a sneaky suspicion that the man was picking up tips.

"Um-"

"Look at her clothes," Sherlock encouraged.

Right. "She…matches," John murmured after a glance at his father. Sherlock nodded patiently. "So…she puts a lot of stock in appearance. More likely that she removes the ring often. And…she knows all about the importance of clothes so…she wants to look single?"

Sherlock nodded. "Anything else?"

John looked back at the ring again. "It's dirty," he offered, thinking of his grandmother's pristine looking rings. "And if she likes things to look nice and she wants to be proud then…the she would clean it so…another sign that she doesn't like her wedding ring?"

"Which suggests what about the marriage?"

"Unhappy," John decided. "And she wants people to know that."

Sherlock winced a little. "Perhaps. Conjecture and an unnecessary divergence," he added with a slight sniff. "Look at the inside," he added, reaching out and turning the ring slightly in John's hands. "See how polished it is?"

John nodded.

"That's a sign that she takes it off a lot – it gets polished by her skin as she pulls it on and off."

Huh. John studied that and tried to commit that lesson to memory.

Sherlock pulled him back a little. "And her hair?"

It was a mess. Even John could tell that. "She hasn't done it up so…knew there was no point? Bad weather or thought she'd get a chance to stop somewhere?"

He remembered that one from a case three months ago. It was still a little baffling to accept that some women spent almost half an hour on their hair, sometimes more.

Seemed like a waste of time to John. There were way more fun things to be done.

Like Call of Duty or Fifa.

"What's the problem with the weather theory?" Sherlock asked.

John looked outside. "It only just started raining," he said with a sigh. "Okay so-"

Sherlock shook his head. "Have conviction," he said, standing up as he tapped away at his phone. "Of course it was bad weather; she'd been in a gale force storm – she didn't use an umbrella, her coat is still saturated and her collar was turned up. We didn't have a storm like that so where did?"

John stared up blankly and slid his gaze to Lestrade who rolled his eyes. "You aren't fucking omniscient," Lestrade muttered as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I have google," Sherlock deadpanned. "There. Wales," he said, flashing the phone at John.

"That's cheating," John complained.

"You think everything is cheating," Sherlock muttered. "Why, I have no idea. You were hardly raised with high moral standards."

"Just lucked out," John muttered as he sat back properly and rested his chin on his knees. The woman's face was turned away from him but he frowned at the mark she had scratched into the floorboards. "What does RACHE mean?"

"It's German for revenge-" Anderson began to announce before Sherlock absently slammed the door shut in his face, still tapping away at the phone.

"You have a better idea?" Lestrade asked as he stared at the door.

"Logical explanation would be the name 'Rachel'. The victim wanted us to find her or…" Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "Where's her suitcase?" he asked.

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked. "I haven't…there isn't a suitcase."

Sherlock stopped dead, his head shooting up like a meerkat on that annoying advert.

"No suitcase?" Sherlock asked sounding almost breathless with anticipation.

John watched him, unsure whether that was a good or bad thing.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It turned out to be a bad thing.

"I'm not getting in there," John said, planting his feet solidly on the ground as Sherlock peered into the industrial bin.

"You're smaller; you can root around better," Sherlock argued.

"Watch my lips," John emphasised. "I am not getting in that bin. I am not going to school on Monday still smelling like bin juice."

"Then I would suggest you have a shower at some point over the weekend," Sherlock snapped.

"It's not my case," John argued.

Sherlock stared at him, long and hard for at least a minute.

Then, miraculously, relented.

"Words cannot express how disappointed I am in you," Sherlock muttered as he hoisted himself up. "I am your father and I ask you to do this one thing-"

Unconcerned, John leaned against the wall, careful to avoid the rain using the overhanging roof from the building. "You used that on Wednesday when you made me get milk."

"Did I?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious. "What a waste of parental disappointment," he sighed.

"That's what I thought," John said. "But then I figured, why argue? Your own fault if you don't use the parent card well."

"Hm," Sherlock said, wincing as he lowered himself down. "What if I implied I was sick in some way?"

"You're in now," John said, peering and wondering if he could get a good picture. "See the case?"

"It was dumped three hours ago. Of course I can see the case," Sherlock huffed. Seconds later a bright pink suitcase was hefted over the edge of the bin.

John made the mistake of darting out into the rain to have a look at it, curious as to what might be inside-

Sherlock jumped down from the bin and caught him shoving his hand across John's face to smear bin juice.

Horrified, John pulled back. "Dad," he whined.

"Simply sharing a valuable life lesson," Sherlock replied with badly disguised amusement. "It's foul, isn't it?"

John wiped what he could off his cheek and tried to aim his hands back at Sherlock.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**September 2013 – Band-e Amir, Afghanistan**

Band-e Haibat was, according to Bastian, the largest lake in the park. It was easy to believe, John thought as he followed Bastian down the hill and towards the Bazaar.

It was a relief to see people again. There was something beautiful and peaceful about how easy it was to isolate yourself here but John always had found people to be the most fascinating thing when he travelled.

Travelling…sure, that was what he was doing he thought as he looked around.

To the side he could see a group of soldiers. They were at the edge of the lake, taking pictures and chatting to some of the locals.

"Do they come out here often?" John asked curiously.

"The Taliban crawl around these parts," Bastian said as they weaved into the crowd. "They know that this attracts tourists, visitors. Security here needs help sometimes."

"When you said that your contact wouldn't come into the city-"

"He's not a fucking hermit, John," Bastian muttered. "Travelling can be dangerous, that's all."

They were doing it, John thought as he hefted his rucksack. But then Bastian could shoot like some sort of super soldier and seemed to know anyone worth knowing.

An English accent made John glance back over at the soldiers. It had been an age since he'd heard one other than his own and usually he tried to blur that into an American twang as much as possible. Nothing too over the top but enough to back up the lie he'd been telling for ...

Christ, he thought with a surprised sigh. Had it really been that long?

"Best brew I've had in years," a red headed soldier boasted with a grin as he toasted the woman that had handed him the tea.

The soldier looked a few years older than him. A northerner. Impossible for John to tell whether he'd ever been in London, whether the solider had heard of the fake-

He cut the thought off and looked away.

No-one seemed to remember anymore. Sherlock Holmes was a mere blip in the media; a name that made headlines for almost six months in total and then interest turned to something else soon after he had-

For a moment all John could see was the figure on the roof, Lestrade screaming out John's name as he tried to pull him back.

There had been blood on the pavement. It had been bitterly cold and there had been blood on the pavement.

Even after two and a half years the memory of that still ached. Still could drive him from sleep, screaming out for-

"John?"

Bastian had turned, shading his eyes with some concern as he stared at John.

"Coming," John said with a last look at the soldier.

It hardly mattered now, did it?

Shouldering his bag, John followed Bastian, ducking his head as he walked by the soldiers.

He didn't want to remember.

And, more than that, he didn't want to be found.

Especially by his fucking Uncle.


	2. Breaking News

**September 2013 - London**

Rain drizzled down the window as Mycroft stared out through it. The world beyond blurred. Not that there was much to see, he thought. At this time of evening the commuters had made their way home and only the truly dedicated would be out for Wednesday night drinks. Certainly there would be no curious explorers wandering past his door.

One year.

A year and two months actually, his brain corrected.

In his hand his phone was an uncomfortable weight as he pressed in the number memorised in his head.

And maybe, slim though the chances were, maybe, this time Sherlock would respond.

\-----------------------------

 

**January 2010 - London**

"Is there a reason why you both smell like a toilet?" Mycroft asked as his nephew and brother bounded up the stairs and onto the landing.

"Dad smeared bin juice on me," John huffed as he continued to race to the bathroom. Moments later, Mycroft heard the door slam shut.

"Do I want to know?" Mycroft asked, looking at his brother as he hefted in a suitcase in a rather alarming shade of pink.

"Successful date?" Sherlock asked stripping off his gloves and childishly throwing them in Mycroft's general direction.

"Somewhat," Mycroft allowed, shifting awkwardly.

"Are you here to tell John?"

It was embarrassing that Mycroft could walk into a world delegation with ease and yet the idea of telling John that he had been dating one of his teachers for four months was…

Not so easy.

"Bridget has made comments that would suggest-"

Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes and folded his arms; all with a petulant expression of annoyance on his face.

Mycroft tapped his finger on the arm of the chair. "I simply wish to limit any awkwardness John may feel. Especially should things not work out."

"If they do not work out then you never see her again and she teaches John once a week. And he leaves school in eighteen months. I would be more concerned with how awkward things will be if you continue not to tell him and things do work out."

If they did work out?

It seemed very unlikely.

"It is my decision, Sherlock," Mycroft warned.

His brother groaned. "Then stop coming here and boring me with your querulous lamentations."

"His what?" John asked, appearing once again and looking as if he'd dipped his head underneath the tap at some point.

Without even looking at John, Sherlock picked up a huge leather bound dictionary that their father had bought John the previous Christmas.

"Yeah, I don't care that much," John muttered, darting away from the book. "Why are you here?" he asked puzzled as he turned to Mycroft.

Behind him, Sherlock smirked.

"I…how was the crime scene?" Mycroft asked.

John shrugged. "Nothing gross," he said, trying to sound as if the entire event was merely an everyday occurrence. Mycroft had no doubt that one day it wouldn't be but John still was kept on a rather short leash with these things. "And Sherlock tried to put me in a bin," he added with a glare.

Mycroft glanced at his brother.

"Two years ago he would have done it," Sherlock muttered. "Teenagers have an annoying attachment to the word 'no'."

So he'd been told.

Glancing down at the suitcase, Mycroft held out an arm to his nephew. "Would you like to make an escape before he tries to get you to wade through a sewer?"

John's shoulders sunk. "But it's a weekend," he whined as he cast a beseeching look at Sherlock.

Mycroft watched his brother glance at the suitcase thoughtfully, apparently weighing everything up. "You should go with Mycroft," Sherlock said after a pause. "Besides, he has news to share with you."

His brother truly was being puerile tonight.

 

In the car, John shifted to the window and glared out at the passing streets.

"He is trying to keep you safe," Mycroft murmured gently.

"I'm almost fifteen," John muttered.

Exactly.

"While I do have your attention," Mycroft started to say hesitantly.

His nephew glanced over in surprise. "I thought Sherlock was just saying that so I would go with you," John said, shifting around a little.

"I…" Mycroft cleared his throat and tried again. "I thought you should know that I'm…having extended dinner meetings."

The baffled look did not help matters. "Extended dinner meetings?" John asked doubtfully. "Is that…" is nose wrinkled. "Wait…are you trying to tell me that you're…" John looked faintly ill at the idea. "Are you dating?"

Mycroft hesitated again.

"Aw," John slumped back against the chair. "You don't date. You…topple governments-"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, pained.

"-and you spend most of your life at work or spying on Dad-"

He was going to kill Sherlock.

"- or Grandma and Grandpa. And you read books that are written in their original language-"

Mycroft dropped his hand and blinked at his nephew. "I fail to see how that affects my dating ability."

"No-one dates people who read," John explained, as if Mycroft was the idiot.

Teenagers were terrifying creatures.

"They do when they pass the age of twenty five," Mycroft said, his tone a little clipped. It must have startled John because the boy softened slightly, a slightly guilty look pulling at his features.

"You've never dated," John said after a moment. "Neither you or Dad. Have you?"

"No," Mycroft agreed, speaking for himself only. He had a slight suspicion that Sherlock had taken a few tumbles and one night stands over the years but his brother was never one to be interested by a relationship. "This is…new," he said shifting.

John eyed him up. "I guess it must be serious then?" he said.

"Yes," Mycroft admitted. "Well…we have been seeing each other socially for a while and dating for a number of months."

John blinked in surprise. "So are you going to get married?"

Married?

No.

Marriage came with all kinds of things like sharing and compromise and the need for honesty.

And then the expectation of children…

"No," Mycroft said firmly. "Just…we shall see how it develops."

John nodded slowly. "So will I meet…" he seemed to hesitate. "Her?"

There it was. Drawing in a deep breath, Mycroft braced himself. "You have," he said carefully.

John's nose wrinkled again. "Who? It's not Anthea; she's addicted to her phone and she would have told me. Who the hell else do I know that you-"

Horror suddenly dawned.

"You are not dating my teacher," John yelped.

Mycroft shifted. "Is that a question or an instruction?" he asked.

"That's…it's…" John leaned over and buried his head in his knees. "You can't date my teacher. What if you annoy her by not making a date and she fails me?"

"Ah, yes. She'd risk professional suicide by failing you just because I annoyed her," Mycroft sighed, sitting back.

"She might if she meets Dad socially," John protested, looking up.

Yes, well…"That's a risk you would take whether I was dating her or not."

John glared and threw himself back again, his face screwed up as he clearly thought it all through, likely picking up on signs he'd ignored for the past few months.

"I know you are fond of her-"

"I'm not," John muttered, though it seemed more of an automatic response than anything else. "Wait, why won't you marry her?" he demanded. "She's clever, she reads, she tries to get me to read boring books all the time-"

When would this phase pass?

"and you both love the rules-"

"I'm sorry, are you against me dating or against the fact I do not wish to commit to her. I'm losing track."

John stuttered to a halt and he folded his arms, frowning as he glared.

"Well…if you're going to marry someone," he said eventually, "I suppose there are worse people."

"Your devotion is touching," Mycroft sighed. "What happens between us will not be affected by you nor will you be affected by it. I simply wanted you to know to avoid any…uncomfortable situations."

John let out a long breath. "Do Grandma and Grandpa know?" he asked.

"Do I look like a moron?" Mycroft snapped. "My mother would fuss and start picking out china patterns within minutes."

John sniggered.

Over the years, they had all eventually learned to give John space when he was assimilating news. Mycroft sat with his laptop as they drove through the streets on London, allowing John time to think everything through.

"Why don't you want to get married?" John asked, his tone genuinely curious.

"It involves certain sacrifices. I am not entirely sure I would feel comfortable with that," Mycroft replied honestly, not looking up.

"I always figured you would."

Surprised, Mycroft glanced over the screen and was even more startled to see nothing but honest interest in John's face. "You did?"

A nod. "I just…I figured you'd retire first and then find a wife a bit younger than you-"

Mycroft blinked at the idea.

"-but yeah. And that I'd have one or two cousins. Better mannered but no-where near as fun as me," John added with a grin.

"You have cousins," Mycroft muttered, looking back down and not at all sure of what to make of the conversation.

"They don't have better manners than me," John said with an unconcerned shrug. Especially given that the one and only time he'd met three out of his four cousins he'd ended up in a shouting match with them. The only one John seemed to stand was Harriet Watson who, in Mycroft's opinion, was dangerously like her father.

"You will not get any cousins from me, John. I can guarantee you that," Mycroft said firmly as he looked back down at his laptop. "And, as such, I am not entirely sure how far my relationship with Ms Llewly will go."

John was silent and Mycroft didn't dare look up again.

"You can use her first name," John said quietly, apparently agreeing to drop the conversation topic. "We can see it when we email her," he added.

"Bridget," Mycroft corrected himself with a sigh. "Though I am fond of her," he added feeling uncomfortable.

John mercifully, said nothing.

\-------------------------------

 

**September 2014 - London**

He hadn't quite realised how dark it was until the light was switched on abruptly and he winced from it, the world beyond his window hidden by the reflection of the room.

"You should sleep," Bridget said firmly. "You were up at four this morning."

"Can't," Mycroft said simply, narrowing his gaze at his own image. Behind him, he could see Bridget; her hair tousled and the dressing down wrapped around her firmly.

"Won't," came the almost sharp correction.

Mycroft said nothing.

What was the point really?

"There's nothing to be done tonight," Bridget said softly as she walked over to him. "Same as every other night, Mycroft. He'll come back when he's ready to."

"He's eighteen years old," Mycroft said as he turned slowly. "At eighteen his father was trying to drug himself into an early grave."

"John is not Sherlock," Bridget said firmly, reaching for his tie and starting to undo it.

"It's been too long," Mycroft sighed. "I should have found him by now-"

"And what?" Bridget asked as she pulled the tie away and folded it neatly upon the table. "As you say, Mycroft, he's eighteen. You can't simply lock him away until he sees sense. He has to choose to come back."

"And if he's in danger?"

Bridget sighed. "He knows where we are, Mycroft. He knows the minute he steps foot in the UK that you would be watching over him. He knows our numbers, emails. He even still has that blog-"

Mycroft winced.

Bridget sighed and stroked his cheek. "Darling," she said softly. "Believe that if he really needed it, John would ask for help. He may not ask for contact but he would ask for help, if not from you, then from me or your parents. The Detective Inspector, Molly, even his other Uncle. John is simply angry with the world at the moment and the more you push trying to find him the further he will run."

Reaching out, Mycroft cupped her face. "I do not know what I would do without you," he murmured gently.

Bridget smiled. "Yes you do," she said stepping back. "You'd stare out the window all night long."

Mycroft sighed.

"And you're going to do it anyway," Bridget decided.

"It should be his first day at university," Mycroft said softly.

Bridget looked away and stroked his tie where it lay on the table.

Then she walked over and stood next to him, wrapping her arm around his back.

"He should be there," she whispered in agreement as Mycroft turned the light off.

He should.

John should be home, Sherlock should be home and they should all be planning ways to avoid the latest party his mother wanted them all to attend. Mycroft closed his eyes as the familiar ache touched upon him again.

Sherlock needed to know.

As frustrating as it was that his brother refused to answer any of his messages, Mycroft had no idea how to tell him that John was missing.

That John wasn't even in the country.

That John probably wouldn't come back unless he was dragged, kicking and screaming.

That Mycroft had failed. Completely. Failed to protect John, to protect Sherlock. To keep track of both of them as they ran as far from London as they could; Sherlock towards danger and John away from Mycroft.

It often took an entire night to catalogue his mistakes with them both.

Bridget reached and squeezed his hand reassuringly and Mycroft opened his eyes once more. And for hours they stood, watching the world outside and the rain fall upon it.


	3. Gambling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes brothers reunite

**Nakskov, Denmark 16th September 2013**

If Moriarty could see him now he would laugh himself to death.

Sherlock tapped the edge of a photograph on the table thoughtfully before tossing it across the paper-strewn surface and burying his head in his hands.

So close.

And yet…

They'd scattered to the wind. Moriarty's network. As soon as they realised they were being hunted and as soon as the big names were arrested or started to disappear the rest simply collapsed away.

The sniper with them.

Evidently there was only so much hold a dead man could have over criminals.

But the snipers…they had been trusted. The three others that had aimed guns that day had been men for hire, there to prove a dramatic point. In truth, all Moriarty needed was one who was committed and rumour was that his pet sniper had been very committed.

One man. One single man stood between Sherlock and his son.

It was infuriating.

His phone went and, grateful for something else to concentrate on, Sherlock reached for the damned thing.

Mycroft.

Again.

_Berlin. Museum. J age. Lunch_

John's age.

The eighteenth.

Somehow, some way, Sherlock had become the father of an eighteen year old.

The thought was terrifying. Not least of all because the last time he had seen his son, the boy had been a devastated sixteen year old sedated in Mycroft's bed.

_No_

Sherlock pushed the phone away after he had finished texting, as if that could push the issue away as well.

No. They did not need to talk. Sherlock did not want to hear how well John was doing with his studies or how badly John was doing with his therapy. The mere thought of his son carrying on life without him was a physical ache like no other. Sherlock did not want to sit and hear how close Mycroft and John had become and seethe with envy nor did he want to hear the opposite and be wracked with guilt.

The phone beeped.

_It's important._

His brother had gained everything and Sherlock had lost.

_No_

It seemed as if that was the end of it.

Then:

_Please. You know I wouldn't repeatedly contact you unless it was necessary._

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Damn him.

The man knew what was at stake.

 

**London January 2010**

"The gun," Sherlock said calmly as he sat opposite the cabbie.

"Are you sure?"

It had been disappointing in the end. There was something about the case; the modus operandi that was beautiful and elegant but the practicalities?

A gun?

As John would say, it was cheating.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said with a smirk. "The gun."

He could see it in Hope's eyes. The amused defeated smirk of a man who had nothing to live for anyway.

He pulled the trigger and the lighter flicked on, an unsteady flame bursting out the top to blaze about the same length as the space in between the knuckles on Sherlock's smallest finger.

Still, if people were that stupid that they didn't know the difference between a novelty item and a weapon then perhaps Hope was a form of natural selection.

"Well, that has been fascinating," Sherlock said, standing up. "I'm sure the police will be delighted to talk to you-"

"Out of curiosity," Hope said as Sherlock stood. "Which one would you have picked?"

Sherlock blinked down at Hope, then back at the pills.

A game. A test to see whether Sherlock could deduce from one single move. It was a delicious idea; tempting certainly.

Sherlock picked up the container closest to Hope.

"Ah…" Hope cackled. "Interesting."

Sherlock ignored him, studying the pill. There were no obvious signs that he could see that would indicate whether he had the placebo or the poison. Taking it out, Sherlock plucked the pill up to the light.

There was certainly something inside. But it could be poison or it could be lemon sherbet for all Sherlock knew.

"You're bored," Hope sneered. "The great Sherlock Holmes, so tied down by life, by the stupidity around him. You'd do anything to escape that, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock tilted his head.

"Play the game. Prove you're right."

Sherlock looked down at the man and stared at the triumphant gaze.

And, with great amusement, placed the pill back in its container.

Hope's face fell.

"If nothing else," Sherlock said seriously. "Take this as a sign that psychology is not your forte." He did the container up and shook it with a smile.

"You're bored," Hope said, sounding stunned.

"And I have a fourteen year old son."

Hope stared, stunned.

"You were willing to kill for yours? I am willing to endure some boredom for mine. Believe me, I know which is the greater sacrifice." Sherlock sniffed as he pocketed the pill. "And, for the record, I am hoping this has the poison. I certainly don't want you shoving that in your mouth and escaping questioning."

Hope closed his eyes.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. Lestrade should be another few minutes at least. Sighing at the man's poor timing, Sherlock sat back down.

Hope, to his credit, didn't bother running for the door. Instead he stared at Sherlock as if he'd never seen him before.

"You have a son?" Hope asked sounding bewildered by the idea. "I didn't see him-"

"I was tracking a serial killer," Sherlock muttered. "How irresponsible do you think I am?"

And John would have slowed him down.

He couldn't wait until John was older.

Hope still looked shell-shocked.

This was going to be a long nine and a half minutes.

 

It wasn't too late when Sherlock returned to Mycroft's house, let himself in and wandered up to the room John used when he stayed with his uncle.

"That was quick," John muttered as he looked up over the laptop.

"He wasn't as clever as he thought he was," Sherlock replied sitting on the edge of the bed. "Fake gun, two pills…he isn't speaking at the moment."

"But you know how he did it?" John asked, yawning.

"He had…" Sherlock hesitated as he took in the sight of the tired teenager. "There are a few loose ends. I will deal with them tomorrow.

"Mm," John said, looking back at the screen. "You mean you'll try to work them out so you can piss Lestrade off when doing the official statement."

That too.

Moving up the bed so that he could see John's laptop screen, Sherlock sat with his back against the wall and peered at the blog page.

"Your assignment?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "I can't think of a title," he murmured.

"Why does it need one at all?" Sherlock muttered, watching the cursor blink at John, waiting and ready to go.

"I dunno," John said, sounding a little unsure.

The tone surprised Sherlock enough that he glanced back to see John staring at the screen and chewing his lip thoughtfully.

It had been a while since he'd seen his son look nervous. Truly nervous. And, for once, the look wasn't directed at him. It made Sherlock smile, oddly nostalgic for when John had been smaller, more eager and accepting of reassurance.

"You are tired," Sherlock declared, sneaking a quick brush of John's hair and earning the obligatory teenage glare for his trouble.

"I'm thick," John whined, banging his head back as if to ward off another parental attempt at comfort.

"I don't raise thick children," Sherlock muttered as he stood up.

"Didn't say children, I said me. One child," John corrected. "Although, I suppose if things go well with Ms Llewly, Mycroft might let you share his kid."

Share?

"I do not share you," Sherlock snapped, turning around. "You are my child. No-one else's."

John looked up, apparently startled at the sudden change in atmosphere. "I was kidding," he said after a moment. "Though, don't forget mum."

If only he could, Sherlock thought as he watched his son. "Mycroft is not your parent," he said firmly, not entirely sure what else to say.

"I know," John said not looking up, the hunch in his shoulders indicating just how deeply uncomfortable with the conversation he was.

"He is your Uncle," Sherlock added, part of him knowing it didn't need to be said, that just by saying these things he was making more of a fuss than was needed. "He will never be anything more."

"Dad."

The tone made Sherlock meet John's eyes and for a moment he started down at his son, not entirely sure what emotion he was seeing.

"I know," John said after a moment.

Sherlock nodded and pressed his lips shut.

 

**Berlin, Germany 18th September 2013**

They'd come to the museum before. The Egyptian museum had been one of those places that had stuck in their mind. The café opposite, San Marino, had seats outside in the warm September sun that faced the grand building.

"Smoking?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the sky, refusing to look at his brother. "I thought this could be a day of unnecessary risk."

The chair scraped against the pavement as Mycroft sat down.

Sherlock frowned as no rebuke was heard, as no sigh echoed out. Suspicious, he tipped his head down to study his brother.

Tired.

Strange that was the first thought that hit him. There were other more noticeable changes; his wedding ring, the slight hints of grey in his hair now. The fact Mycroft was a little thinner than he had been in years.

But it was the tiredness that screamed out to Sherlock. It was clear in Mycroft's eyes, in the way he had done his tie, in the way he sat. And it wasn't work related…

"Is fatherhood taking its toll?" Sherlock spat at him.

Mycroft's gaze skittered away, his mouth firming into a thin line, and Sherlock felt his blood turn to ice.

"What happened?"

Mycroft stared at the table for the longest time and then slowly looked up, studying Sherlock in a way that Sherlock rarely experienced. It wasn't a look that tracked the surface, that deduced his day and looked for an opportunity to get one up on Sherlock.

This was…looking for something. Worrying, it seemed as if Mycroft was looking for…

Strength.

"John…" Mycroft pushed the cutlery to be perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the table. "He ran away."

A slither of relief flooded through.

Mycroft wasn't any better at parenting John that Sherlock had been.

"Are you here to ask for advice?"

"He hasn't come back and he hasn't contacted me."

John was eighteen; did Mycroft think he was still an eleven year old child that would hide in the park and wait to be found?

Still…there were far too many risks to have John out unprotected for long. Space might be what his son wanted (and a large part of Sherlock could fully understand that John wanted space from Mycroft) but there needed to be some protection, some form of safety for John.

The idea that no-one was watching over John suddenly sunk in and Sherlock shifted, uncomfortable with the strange tightness in his chest. "How long?" he asked, barely recognising his own voice.

Mycroft still wouldn't look at him.

"How long-"

"I have been trying to tell you," Mycroft snapped. "For months now I have been-"

"Months?" Sherlock snarled. "Months?"

Mycroft sat back, anger emblazoned in his eyes and jaw tight. "Not months, Sherlock. A year."

No.

Nothing else managed to make its way through Sherlock's brain. All he could focus on was…

No.

"What…What did you do?"

Mycroft's jaw clenched and he pressed his lips together to form a tight white line as fixed as a scar. It didn't matter, Sherlock's brain was already racing ahead.

"He's not in the country then," Sherlock decided, sitting back and letting his thoughts whirl. "He's shocking at languages…America? As I recall he was taught to do a passable accent-"

Mycroft shook his head. "He went there first," he said staring into the restaurant. "By the time I managed to catch up, John…" Mycroft shook his head. "Either he isn't there or has successfully managed to assimilate himself.

"By the time you…" Sherlock tried to ignore the impulse to stand and kick something. "How long did it take you to-"

"I was distracted," Mycroft hissed.

"Distracted?" Sherlock breathed furiously. "Distracted?"

Mycroft's gaze suddenly snapped to Sherlock's, meeting his glare with a defiant one on of his own. Strange, really, to see that emotion on Mycroft's face.

"I had other family matters to attend to," Mycroft said tightly. "Matters that did not mean John was less important but simply meant that I missed certain signs and wasn't thinking straight when he first left."

Sherlock stared at him.

Then pushed back, away from the table and started to storm down the street.

If he punched Mycroft the fight would draw attention. Now more than ever he needed to keep himself quiet, a whispered shadow, a ghost. If Moriarty's people had concrete evidence that he was alive…

"I will not have you walk away from this," Mycroft's voice called as his footsteps echoed behind Sherlock.

"You were distracted?" Sherlock hissed whirling around. "Family matters? I gave him to you. I gave you my son and you were distracted by-

"My daughter."

Sherlock paused and blinked.

What?

"You…" he looked at the cuff of Mycroft's suit and then for any other possible markers.

Nothing.

"Do you think I am going to broadcast it?" Mycroft asked, looking around as he adjusted his stance. "Or that I brought her with me?"

No.

Mycroft had a child.

A baby.

A deep, aching jealousy suddenly hit. Blinding in its force and decimating in its power.

Mycroft had a child. Could rock his child to sleep, could see it at night and know it was safe. He could watch his child grow, safe and happy.

He would never have to live with the fact he had missed years. That he had failed to protect his child. Mycroft would never know the agony of walking away not just once, but twice.

Of knowing his child had been hurt and he was powerless to make it better.

"Then go home to her," Sherlock snarled. "Go back. I do not need you to-"

"This is John we are talking about," Mycroft snapped. "I am not going to walk away-"

"Yet you let him walk away," Sherlock yelled. "I gave you the one thing-"

"I know."

Sherlock looked away, not wanting to see his brother's expression.

"I will deal with it," Sherlock said after a moment as he studied the wall. "You will simply draw more attention to him. Go home."

"You want to find him while pretending to be dead?" Mycroft asked wryly. "I think you may be slightly overestimating your skills."

"Better that than over estimating yours," Sherlock snapped as he turned around again. "Go home. You are no longer required."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Not alone


	4. Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to work out where John would go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for character death

Where would John go?

Sherlock sat on the train, head almost touching the window as he stared out at the rolling landscape.

John would have been seventeen when he'd left.

He'd walked out of his A-levels. On his grandparents and Mycroft-

Mycroft.

The name made Sherlock grind his teeth slightly. What had his brother done to John to make him leave? John wasn't the type of child to get upset that there was a baby in the house. If anything, Sherlock would have been sure that would have ensured John stayed.

A baby. He had a niece.

And he had no idea how old she was, what Mycroft had meant by 'distraction'. Had she been sick? Was it labour that had distracted Mycroft and made him moronically blind to whatever it was that was happening with John?

Had the pregnancy been planned? Had Mycroft finally gotten over his idiotic notion that he couldn't be trusted with a child? Had-

Sherlock pushed the thoughts away.

John.

John had to be the priority. And perhaps Sherlock should have asked his brother a few more questions before starting down this path but it was done now.

He knew his son better than anyone.

He'd had to.

 

**London 2010**

"Dead?"

Lestrade nodded looking deeply unhappy. "This morning. Went to wake him up and…" he shook his head. "Pills."

"He had no pills on him when he went in-"

"You'd be amazed the places prisoners use to hide-"

"He had no pills on him," Sherlock roared. "Do you not think I would know? Me? That man had no means of escape-"

"Escape?" Lestrade snapped with a glare.

Sherlock waved him off. "You know what I mean," he huffed. "He sincerely thought that he would live out his days here."

Lestrade stared at him for a look moment. "Only staff went near him," he said keeping his gaze steadily on Sherlock.

"I hardly think it will be news to you that prison staff can be bribed." Sherlock looked around, thinking of another room years ago with Anna as they had talked.

"Fucking hell," Lestrade breathed, "I hate it when…." He looked around uncomfortably. "We won't be able to prove it," he said softly.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "I might but you won't."

Lestrade looked as if he would be quite happy throttling Sherlock.

 

Three hours later, Sherlock left feeling somewhat smug that he'd been able to find the imbecile responsible for giving Hope the pills. The woman had burst into tears the moment he'd shown her the pills he'd discovered.

She would be placed under watchful protection now but Sherlock doubted that she knew enough for whoever was behind all of this to even bother with her.

It was fascinating though, the idea that there was someone behind the crime. Someone pulling the strings and creating the puzzles.

An opponent.

"You don't need to look so fucking pleased," Lestrade hissed at Sherlock as they walked.

"I solved your leak, Inspector. One would think you should look more pleased."

"That woman's life is-"

"Oh, she made the choice," Sherlock muttered as he signed out at the desk. "Or do you take responsibility for the crimes of all the people you arrest? No wonder you try to do it so infrequently."

"You don't have to look triumphant. A bit of empathy wouldn't go amiss."

Boring.

A plain ring tone rang out. Unsaved number; potential client?

Whatever it was, the conversation would undoubtedly be far more productive than the one he was having.

Deliberately trying to be annoying, Sherlock held up a hand to Lestrade who had taken breath to start a new complaint and answered his phone. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah," the person at the other end of the line fumbled as if they weren't expecting him to answer.

Moron.

"Um…is this…you are listed as Anna Watson's next of kin."

"What has she done now?" Sherlock huffed, striding forward. "Any more tales of past boyfriends?"

"I…sorry…I'm not sure what you-"

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock stopped, even though it would allow Lestrade the opportunity to catch up. "Why are you phoning?"

"We'd like for you to come by as soon as possible-"

"I'm busy. And check your logs; I haven't been to see that…" Sherlock glanced heavenwards and restrained the urge to call her all the names under the sun. "Irresponsible…" he trailed off and winced. "I haven't seen her in years. I drop my son at the prison and stay at the sidelines-"

"I…that's not…" There was a wobble in the voice now and then a sigh from someone else and the noise of a phone being handed over.

"Hello, my name is Arlene Simmonds. We would very much appreciate it if you would come to the prison at your earliest convenience and-"

"It's not convenient," Sherlock snapped.

"Then come anyway," she insisted, a hint of iron in her voice.

"I am not coming," Sherlock declared. "So whatever she has done, tell me now so I may get on with my day."

There was a long pause.

It made him freeze, a sudden realisation hitting-

"I am sorry to inform you that Anna Watson died today."

Sherlock stared at the street, at the cars crawling by and the bus that stupidly pulled across a road and blocked in all the traffic.

She couldn't be dead. He had to fight with her for their son when she was released.

Dead.

Useless word-

"Mr Holmes, we would like it if you were to come in today-"

"How?" he said suddenly waking up from the stupor.

"How do you get to us?" Arlene asked in what he assumed was meant to be a gentle tone.

"You said she died," Sherlock murmured. "Not an illness; I would have known. Nor an accident-"

"There were pills," Arlene said in that same annoying voice. "It looks as if Anna may have-"

Pills.

But…

Slowly, Sherlock turned to look back at the prison he had just left.

It had to be a coincidence. Anything else…

The mysterious benefactor killing Anna because he had stopped the cabbie would be a huge over-reaction, surely? No warning, no hints? It wasn't…

That wasn't part of the game.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lestrade watching him, a concerned look on his face as the man thankfully just waited, not asking questions or badgering him with emotional support or whatever it was called.

Anna and pills.

Anna would never have left John-

"You're wrong," Sherlock said, staring up at the brick walls. "It wasn't suicide."

Oh god.

John.

Terror suddenly swamped him. His son, fourteen years old, finally settled, finally happy and secure and now-

He would kill whoever had done this. Rip their life apart the way he was about to have to tear John's up.

Pills.

Too much of a coincidence.

What else was there? What link could-

The person Anna had used, the favour she had owed.

_An admirer._

_Benefactor._

The same person?

Why wait all this time? If it was the same person then-

"…come in and we'll discuss it?"

He didn't want to.

He wanted to take John and hide him so he would never find out. He could probably even manage it for a few months.

Except John would ask questions. Questions that Sherlock needed to know, needed to be able to give the correct answers to.

"Fine."

 

"I am in the middle of a… meeting," Mycroft said as the sound of glasses rang out, clinking together and interrupting the flow of conversation.

"You need to come with me," Sherlock said as he sat in the taxi.

"It is important-"

"I do not care about your date and how far your leg has managed to get over," Sherlock snarled down the phone. "You need to-"

The phone call ended.

Sherlock slammed the phone into the plastic shield that separated him from the taxi driver, almost screaming in frustration before he called his father.

"Anna died."

As opening greetings went it wasn't his best, but it got the message across. There was a long pause and then his father cleared his throat. "Where are you?"

"I'll meet you at the prison," Sherlock decided. "And if you can manage to tear Mycroft away from his beloved teacher, tell him the same."

 

"As we understand it, Anna was estranged from most members of her family. We have tried to contact George Watson but-"

Sherlock ignored the droning on. His parents sat side by side, holding hands and both looking pale while Mycroft (who had finally deigned to turn up) sat ramrod straight and his gaze was centred upon Arlene as she spoke.

Waste of time.

"She had a visitor," Sherlock said as he flipped through the pages he had stolen from the log book.

Arlene looked up and visibly blanched. "You shouldn't have-"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said, tapping at the page. "Yesterday."

After he had arrested the taxi driver.

He couldn't have caused this. It had been a game; it couldn't have led to this.

Just a game.

"Our grandson," his father said leaning forward, distracting Arlene. "Anna's son, is there…is there a way of dealing with this? You must have seen many cases over the years."

Arlene smiled sadly. "There's no magical cure, I'm sure you know. Suicide is difficult to deal with. Family members will often feel as if they missed something or as if they could have tried harder."

His father leaned back with a sigh.

"John will," his mother said, sounding nervous. "He thinks the whole world's happiness depends on him sometimes."

"We can look at therapy-"

Sherlock almost laughed. They'd just got John freed from therapy sessions and now-

Stupid.

He looked back down at the log book, at the mystery and the answers that he could seek.

When he looked back up, Mycroft was watching him steadily.

"He'll need answers," Sherlock murmured as Mycroft rose to stand next to him.

"He isn't you," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock shook his head. "I did this. The taxi cab case, the pills. This is for me-"

Mycroft pressed his lips together. "You think…this benefactor, do you-"

"Anna asked for help with her crime, and Hope asked for help with his." Sherlock put the book down. "How many…" he struggled for a word and then nearly laughed at the phrase that came to him. "How many consulting criminals are there?"

Mycroft reached for the log book. "There have been whispers," he said quietly as their parents continued to talk to the counsellor. "If this is indeed the same man…" he trailed off.

"Finish your sentences," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft said nothing as he put the log book down and, with neat precise moves, closed it up and put it away.

 

John was doing his homework when Sherlock entered the flat.

Pointless. John had already been excused from school for the next week.

"What's the formula for the sine rule?" John asked in between chewing on his pencil.

How was he meant to do this?

John glanced over and stiffened in worry. "Dad? What's-"

Sherlock knelt down next to his son's chair and pushed the maths homework away.

"Dad?" John sounded scared now. "Why are you-"

The words wouldn't come. How could he do it? How could he say…

"Your mother died this morning."

Mycroft.

Sherlock almost turned around to stare disbelievingly at his brother but the expression of sheer disbelief on John's face stopped him. His gaze darted up and to what Sherlock assumed was Mycroft and then back to Sherlock again.

"It's…" John stared at Sherlock, as if trying to see the lie. "No. She…" he shook his head fiercely as he sat back into the seat, away from them both. His eyes were suddenly bright and mouth pressed fiercely together as if refusing to let anything in.

Sherlock still didn't know what to say.

"She took some pills-"

Sherlock could have strangled Mycroft. John's jaw dropped open, sheer shock on his features now as the truth started to set in.

"No," John shook his head again suddenly looking terribly young. "No. She wouldn't…" He looked down at Sherlock. "She wouldn't leave me."

It was meant to be a statement but the echo of a terrified question was in the words and all Sherlock could do was shake his head.

"Would she?"

Sherlock looked down, hating how silent he had been and waiting for Mycroft to say something.

But his brother seemed to have lost the words too.

"She's not dead," John whispered. "Please don't…don't let her be dead. Please-"

Sherlock sat up and cupped his son's face. There were reassuring words, the things that he knew he was meant to say. The 'it will be all right' and 'she's in a better place now' could be used here.

But the first was a lie and the second seemed mocking and cruel.

He couldn't subject John to either.

The words died on his tongue and the only thing he could do was pull John off the chair and into his arms.

His son cried.

For hours.

And Sherlock still had no idea what to say.

 

**September 2013**

John thought of himself as an orphan.

A child who had heard both parents be accused of committing suicide.

In the hotel room, Sherlock lay the map out on the floor, his fingers skimming the edges of continents. Conversations from years ago rang out as he studied the world.

A child who had been let down by his family, who wanted to escape.

He'd avoid everywhere they'd talked about. He'd want to carve a new path for himself.

No-where he or Anna had mentioned then.

No-where Mycroft could find him.

Danger. John would need to feel as if he were changing something, doing something-

Sherlock let his hand trace as he ruled out countries until only a handful remained.

And then ruled them out further until he was left with his most likely two.

Afghanistan or Iraq?

 

2010

John wasn't talking.

To anyone.

Which worked well, Sherlock thought bitterly, as he had nothing to say.

Until three days later when he watched John stare at a picture; one of Anna and John pre-prison.

"It wasn't you."

John looked up, startled.

"You…your mother and I agreed on one sole thing. You are the most important thing, our greatest achievement and source of pride. It wasn't your fault."

John's jaw clenched as he looked down.

"It was me," Sherlock continued, sitting down opposite John. "The…your mother had connections. The link that put her in prison. The cabbie case last week it…the pills. I think-"

John stared at him with a blank gaze.

It didn't matter, Sherlock supposed as he stared back at his son. No matter the explanation, it wouldn't bring Anna back.

It wouldn't stop John from losing his mother.

"I had detention," John said suddenly, rubbing a thumb over the glass. "I didn't go to see her last week."

"You're our son," Sherlock muttered. "Of course you get detention."

"I can't remember what we talked about the last time I saw her," John whispered. "I can't…I don't remember."

Sherlock stroked a hand through John's greasy hair. "Because it wasn't unusual for you to see her," he said trying to keep his voice low and soft. "You had a relationship with her, John, not one bound just by duty or the occasional visit."

John leaned into him and sighed, snuggling close and Sherlock took the opportunity to wrap his arms around his son.

"My mum's dead," John said, sounding as if he were testing the words out.

Sherlock tightened his grip.

"It doesn't feel real," John whispered. "It's not real."

It would do. When the shock wore off.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what would follow.


	5. A good son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if any info in the chapter is wrong - I took a crash course in Afghanistan history via google!

**Band-e Amir, Afghanistan - September 2013**

John was quickly discovering that he was just as shit as speaking in Persian as he was speaking in French.

And, just like when he'd been a teenager, it didn't help that the person with him seemed to be born speaking fifty thousand different languages with perfect ease.

Abdul Naderi, their contact, was not at all what John had been expecting. He'd pictured some scarred man who glared at him and lived alone. Instead, they found a family man who welcomed them into his home with gusto.

He had three young boys, all of whom giggled at John's attempts to talk to them in broken Persian.

"What possible use is a farmer to you?" John asked Bastian as they stood outside, watching the sunset.

"How much do you know of the history here?" Bastian asked as he sucked in a deep breath on his cigarette.

"Not much," John confessed. "Didn't have time really, did I?"

Bastian nodded in acknowledgement. "The Hazara people are often treated like second class citizens. They farm here, they need the land and yet proclamation allows Kuchis to come here and use the pastures in the summer. Too many fights, too much history…Abdul used to live in Kabul. He still knows people there, people who can help with things we need. And he knows more than you think he does. Don't be fooled."

John stared out across the mountains as the sun dipped behind the furthest range. "I didn't expect him to have a family," he murmured.

"Well…" Bastian glanced back over his shoulder and at the house. "It does make things more complicated. The older his boys get, the more wary he becomes. The fewer people he stays in contact with."

John stayed quiet.

"You don't like the fact that he has a family," Bastian murmured after a while. "Too close to home?"

John turned his head quickly, surprised.

"You said your father had died," Bastian prompted. "Murdered."

John looked away and leaned his elbows onto the wall. "My father took stupid risks," he said tightly. "And then he took one too many."

Bastian flicked his stub of cigarette out into the rocky ground beyond the wall. It was uneven harsh territory where the farmers hadn't started work.

It made it all the more impressive to look at the places where they did grow crops.

"My father was a wanker," Bastian said after a moment. "Can't always get my head around the fact that others didn't cheer when their Dad dropped."

John shrugged then smiled. "Bad insult," he said, hearing his voice softening at the memory.

Bastian looked at him questioningly.

"My Dad…I was teased at school because…well…" John sighed. "Be shorter to give you a list of reasons why I'd have been seen as normal. They had a thing for a while about calling me a bastard. My Dad pointed out that it was entirely true and a really unimpressive insult."

Bastian snorted. "Where the hell were you that you got picked on for being a bastard?" he asked. "Jesus, way things are now I'd have thought you'd been picked on if you weren't one."

John laughed, feeling the tension between his shoulders start to ease. "I went to a posh school in London. Not private but…not exactly the usual mix."

"You never said your family was rich," Bastian murmured.

"Grandparents," John said carelessly. "Both sets actually. That's how my parents met. Through functions-"

"I thought your dad was English and your mum American?"

Fuck.

Don't scramble or panic, Sherlock's voice echoed in his head. Look baffled that they haven't followed your logic while you invent a story.

"Hmm?" John said, trying to keep his tone steady. "Oh…my mum's parents traveled over a few times. Business contacts and all that. Bored both my parents rigid. They were the cool ones sneaking out the back half the time."

Bastian nodded though he seemed a little ill at ease.

As if unconcerned, John returned to the young boys, and their laughing attempts to teach him their language.

 

**London - Late February 2010**

"Where have you been?" Sherlock demanded as John started to sneak up the second flight of stairs.

"With a friend," John said as he stopped and stared at the banister.

"For twenty seven hours?" Sherlock asked.

"It's the weekend," John muttered, tracing the grain.

There was a long silence behind him. "Turn around and tell me every single meal you ate, who you were with when you ate and where you were."

Fuck.

Slumping his shoulders, John pressed his lips together and dropped his gaze to the well-tread carpet.

"Well?"

"I'm lying," John muttered.

The silence dragged on for an age. It almost got to the point where John wanted to turn to check Sherlock was still there. Turning would have been admitting defeat though so he stayed, listening for some hint that Sherlock was walking away and giving up.

"Come into the living room," Sherlock said slowly before footsteps signaled he was walking away.

It was tempting to walk upstairs; to just storm up, slam the door shut and push the world away.

It never worked with Sherlock.

Reluctantly, John made his way back down and stepped through the door. The kitchen and living area was quiet, the light soft and shadowed.

Possibly even stranger than the calming atmosphere of the flat was the sight of Sherlock steadily making hot chocolate.

"Someone die?" John asked before the words resonated and he flinched at his own stupidity.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock muttered as he worked. "If there had been a death I would be making something far more upbeat than hot-chocolate."

It almost made John grin; the familiarity of Sherlock being an insensitive git to people's pain was a relief but…

He held onto his glare and refusal to sit or engage.

"Did you give it away or give it back?" Sherlock asked.

For a moment John considered playing innocent but it seemed like such a waste of time.

"Gave it away," John said, folding his arms.

There was a very long sigh.

"Think hot chocolate's gonna cure me of being a thief?"

The tea-spoon tapped the edge of the cup in three precise taps.

"If you're not going to say anything then I'm going to bed," John declared.

"That would be utterly pointless," Sherlock said as he put the spoon carefully into the sink. "Of all the people in the world I am the worst person to enter into childish competitions with."

Whatever.

"Can I at least know what the point is of me being down here?"

"This is the third time you have disappeared into the underbelly of London. The fifth time you have stolen something. The second break in. Though congratulations on avoiding another fight," Sherlock added as he turned to look at John.

Not really wanting to see the expression on Sherlock's face, John looked away.

"What exactly is it you are hoping to achieve with this behaviour?"

John shrugged.

"There must be some aim to it."

"Not hot chocolate," John muttered.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped and turned, pouring the drinks away. "Come on then," he said, striding past John and picking up his coat as he went.

John stayed where he was.

"Or we sit and have a long talk-"

God no.

John turned on his heel and followed his father out.

 

**Band-e Amir, Afghanistan - September 2013**

"You are good with my little ones," Abdul said later. "You have siblings?"

"A cousin," John said as he studied a wooden horse that one of the boys had gifted him with for John's stumbling efforts to learn the language. "A few of them actually but…young kids are fun. It's easy to forget everything else when you're with them."

"They are a blessing," Abdul said with a fond smile. "But you are too young to have such worries that you want an escape."

John smiled and watched the fire in front of him. Beyond it, Bastian's shadowy figure was visible as he sat slightly away, hunched over a notebook that was almost indiscernible in the half light.

"Your young companion carries a weight on his shoulders, yes?" Abdul said, raising his voice just a little to break through Bastian's solitary study.

"Don't we all?" Bastian said, as if barely concerned with what they were talking about.

It would fool most.

For a while they sat in silence, the crackle of the fire and the general sounds around them were lulling, soothing.

"You did not travel all this way just to greet me, my friend," Abdul said leaning back.

Bastian flicked his cigarette away. "I need names," he said without any beating around the bush.

"You know names," Abdul said.

"I need more. We're settling, at least for a while. I need to know who I can trust, who to avoid, who to trade with."

"Settling?" Abdul asked. "The great Sebastian Moran putting down roots? Here? Why?"

"Do you really want the answer to those questions?"

Abdul flinched.

"I will create a document," he said in a faltering tone.

"You will tell me, tomorrow," Bastian said, standing. "Paper lies."

And with that, he vanished into the darkness.

"Your companion is dangerous," Abdul said quietly.

John stared at the fire. "More than you know," he said.

 

**London - Late February 2010**

"What are you doing?" John yelped.

"You seem determined to throw your life away. Some sentimental drivel at following in your mother's footsteps I assume, as if that was the best way to honour her."

John stared at his father and then at the museum's side door that his father was currently picking the lock to. "This is bull," he said, not entirely sure. "Mycroft's swung it so-"

"I can do things without Mycroft's input," Sherlock hissed looking mortally insulted.

"We'll get caught," John hissed back.

"I thought that was the point," Sherlock said, returning his attention to the door.

"Getting caught?"

"Indeed," Sherlock said. "If you are determined to go to prison then I hope you are aware I will not let you go alone."

"Are you stupid?" John sneered. "I'm fifteen. We wouldn't even go to the same-"

He broke off as Sherlock threw him a filthy look and pushed the door open.

Then vanished inside.

Shocked, John stood stock still.

Sherlock was many things but he sucked as a thief. The man couldn't manage five minutes without being the centre of attention.

He'd get caught and then…

People who went to prison never came out.

Terror suddenly struck. Horrified, John darted forward, mind racing as to how he could-

The moment he dashed through the door, Sherlock grabbed at him.

"Understand?" he hissed at John, shaking him. "Do you understand how helpless it feels to watch someone throw their life away just to prove a point? Do you understand how moronic it is to do this in the hopes that somehow it will bring you closer to your mother?"

"That's not-"

Sherlock shook him again. "She is dead," he hissed violently. "No matter what you do, no matter how much you steal, how close you get to being in prison you will not miraculously return her to the living."

"Then what do I do?" John almost screamed at him.

Sherlock faltered. His entire being softened as the fury drained from him and he pulled John to him. "I don't know," his father confessed.

Hating the words from Sherlock, John slumped against him, suddenly exhausted. "I miss her," he whispered.

"I know," Sherlock said sounding frustrated.

"I…I've lost her. " John pulled away suddenly, that strange feeling coming over again as he talked to Sherlock; the urge to pull away and barricade himself from his father. "What do I have left to show that she existed, that she…I'm a shit son."

Sherlock shook his head. "You're a moron," he muttered. "That's not my influence."

John shook his head, not entirely sure what he was saying no to.

"One more trip," Sherlock said after a pause. "No more tricks."

Unable to care anymore, John just nodded.

 

**Band-e Amir, Afghanistan - September 2013**

John stared across at the landscape, arms folded as he watched the sunrise.

For a boy born and bred in London it was quite a sight.

It felt like a million years since he'd been sat in 221b planning where he wanted to go, Sherlock muttering as he stuck pins in the map to keep track and secretly nudging the pins in the direction he wanted.

Sherlock would-

The thought made John bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

In the house behind him Bastian was getting the information.

It took everything John had not to go back.

 

**London – Late February 2010**

They sat outside the graveyard, together in silence. John wasn't exactly sure what it said about him that it hadn't been his mother's grave that had finally made him cry.

It had been Nigel's.

The sight of his parents' combined fury on his grandfather's grave and his uncle's kept promise had shaken something loose.

"I hate how much you are her son," Sherlock said softly as he stroked John's hair. "I have nothing to do with your sense of right and wrong, your attitude to responsibility. You find humour in life and you have her tenacity to fight against overwhelming odds. How you can think you do not show yourself to be her son every day is baffling. And stupid. Which you also get from her."

John let himself snigger this time even as he swiped at his face to get rid of the tears. Sitting forward, John tried to collect himself, trying to work out how to ask the question he wanted to ask without having to say the words.

"If you…if it had been you who had…" John frowned down at his hand, annoyed with himself. "How would you want me to…what would you want me to do?"

Sherlock shifted. Worried he had upset him, John glanced back and then almost rolled his eyes at how intrigued Sherlock looked by the idea.

"How would I die?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged.

"Play along," Sherlock muttered, poking John in the ribs. "You were insensitive to bring this up."

"You're insensitive enough to ask me how you're going to die," John replied, sitting back up. "Don't take the moral high-ground with me."

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm not dying of old age and boredom," he decided. "I'd want you to solve my murder and be utterly insensitive about it as you did."

John laughed. "Seriously," he prompted.

"I am being serious," Sherlock said with a glare. Then he seemed to relent. "I…I wouldn't want you to…to be stupid. You could have the whole world, John. Mycroft will probably attempt to gift it to you for your eighteenth birthday."

The image of Mycroft handing over a perfectly wrapped miniature globe made John grin.

The mood soon fled as he stared at the gates to the graveyard. "Dad," John said staring at the metal. "Seriously-"

"I am. Be clever," Sherlock said meeting his gaze. "Never do anything blindly or without purpose. Without a goal. I'd want you to go out into the world and change it to be yours."

John pressed his lips together.

"But she," Sherlock said sounding torn. "She wanted you to be safe. That was all she asked of me, John. To keep you safe and happy. Honour that."

"Boring?" John asked softly.

"There are worse things," Sherlock said. "And you could never be boring. Anna and I could not create boring if we tried."

 

**Band-e Amir, Afghanistan - September 2013**

"Get it?" John asked as Bastian came up beside him.

"You doubted?" Bastian asked.

John smiled. "We heading back then?"

"Yeah," Bastian said. "He won't be talking to anyone for a while."

John watched Bastian walk away and turned to look back at the house that stood silently in the early morning sun, not entirely sure what he was implying.

He should go in, he should-

No.

Whatever Moran had done John wouldn't be able to make it better today.

But one day…

Be clever.


	6. The best laid plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry! I know it's been so long with this that if anyone reads I'll be amazed but on the bright side I am currently half way through chapter eight so I doubt the update will take another year! Thanks so much to chappysmom for still editing and discussing ideas with me and to everyone that gave words of encouragement :)

_22nd November 2013 (MH) - JP has resurfaced. Do you want the details?_

_22nd November 2013 (MH) – The harder you look the more attention you will draw._

_23rd November 2013 (MH) – Do not be petty._

_23rd November 2013 (MH) – There is more at stake than your ego._

Xxx

**Kandahar 2nd December 2013**

It seemed somewhat ironic that the man John had spent the past year plotting to kill was giving him the perfect skills to do it.

The yard was often used for target practise and John watched as Bastian corrected someone's stance. The guy, Joey, was ex-military and had looked pissed the first time Bastian had done it. That was until Bastian had demonstrated just what a fucking terrifying shot he was.

The man could have been born with a gun in his hand.

"You paying attention, John?" Bastian snapped as he glanced over and nodded at the locked box John was meant to be picking.

With a smug grin, John clicked it open, purposefully ignoring the way that Kavan's eyes glared bullet holes in him. Clearly he'd been hoping his four or quick kills would earn him a bit more attention from Moran than he was getting.

"You've got magic fingers," Mario muttered as he studied the lock John had just picked. "He's wasted here," he called to Bastian.

Bastian ignored them as his phone went off. Ever paranoid, he disappeared to take the call.

"How old are you?" Mario asked.

"Twenty," John said, the lie an easy one now. "How far from the grave are you?"

Mario cackled out a laugh.

The man was different from the others. It was an eclectic mix that passed through Bastian's house and 'company'.

A mix that he always made a point of finding out about before he had to pass on the information to her.

"I could be as far away from the grave as you, lad," Mario said, shaking his head with amusement as he tossed the box, complete with passports and money back onto the table.

John nodded.

He didn't doubt it.

Xxx

**London 3rd December 2013**

Not for the first time did Mycroft find himself lost in thought as he studied the picture of Jakov Popovic taken by surveillance.

Moriarty's associate and the assassin that had been posted on John.

The man had for all intense and purposes vanished years ago when Sherlock had first fallen. While trying to comfort a heartbroken teenager, Mycroft had found himself unearthing every possible lead, scraping through any possible source in the desperate hope that they would find the man with a gun at his nephew's head.

Nothing.

Until now.

And Sherlock was being particularly childish-

He couldn't even finish the thought. Couldn't pretend that it was the same.

_I gave you one thing._

Frustrated, he tossed the picture down and stood up. With sharp, irritated movements he gathered up the intelligence and put the file away into the safe, casting a glance at his phone as he did so.

Sherlock still hadn't replied.

Striding out, he locked the door. Glancing down the hall he hesitated for a moment before turning and walking up the stairs.

The sight of his daughter never failed to calm him. She lay on her mattress, arms flung out and fingers clenched. Her hair was starting to thicken now, tiny curls brushing her forehead and cheek.

She was infinitely precious. So vulnerable and easily hurt.

The picture of John with Phoebe on the wall across from him made Mycroft draw in a deep breath. Knowing he shouldn't do it, Mycroft slid his hands underneath her and picked his daughter up. She stirred a little and then settled her head on the crook of his shoulder.

It was so much easier to comfort children when they were small. He could fix Phoebe's sorrows with ease; years ago he had been able to calm John with an arm around the shoulders or a brief card through his hair.

What did it mean that Popovic was back in the open?

There was a tiny answer at the back of his mind. A dreadful idea that he couldn't even bear to think, let alone analyse or say.

But his hold on Phoebe tightened ever so slightly.

Please, god.

Let him be alive.

Xxx

**London June 2012**

Footsteps clicked on the floor, each step sounding deliberate and carefully placed, though slow. In the attempt to have a steady pace, Mycroft detected a limp; one that his brother wanted to hide.

"You were injured?"

"I fell off a building." Mycroft closed his eyes when the retort was delivered in an exhausted tone.

"You saw?" he asked, taking a sip.

Sherlock sat heavily in the seat opposite him, his face lined with old streaks of blood and bruised. Instead of answering, he nodded sharply in the dim light.

They sat in utter silence. Their greatest trick, their most impossible plan should have been met with triumph, with brilliance and delight.

"What went wrong?" Mycroft asked slowly. "Was it John or Mrs Hudson?"

"John." Sherlock sounded as dead as the world believed him to be. He seemed to shake himself slightly, "He was bound to pick up some of our plan eventually."

"Clever boy," Mycroft murmured, unable to remember a time when he'd wished so hard that John hadn't learned a thing from them. "In the taxi?"

Sherlock nodded. "His reaction created a better diversion for Lestrade than we could ever match," he said, sounding shaken. "As it is, I believe he added the extra note of credibility to my death," he swallowed. "After all, what father would force his son to watch a fake suicide like that?"

"One who had everything to lose," Mycroft said gently.

Sherlock snorted, staring at nothing.

"He's upstairs," Mycroft said slowly. "Asleep."

Sherlock shook his head minutely.

"Sedated," Mycroft added. "He won't wake."

The flinch was unmistakable. "If I go…If I see him…" Sherlock shook his head. "I cannot walk away twice."

"You're sure?"

"No," Sherlock said frankly. "I…" he looked up, swallowing heavily, his eyes bright. "I heard him…he was screaming-"

Mycroft closed his eyes as his fingers tightened on the glass. By the time he'd arrived, John had been nearly hoarse from his devastated screams for his father and Lestrade had been pale faced and chalky with the shock and horror of what had happened.

"We eliminated the sniper that was watching Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said after a moment.

Sherlock nodded dully. "He was lazy," he said, staring at nothing. "Was there any sign of-"

"No." Mycroft tightened his jaw, annoyed. "They know John's safety is paramount. The assassin will be the most skilled-"

Sherlock simply closed his eyes. "You are telling me nothing of use," he muttered.

Disliking the problem, Mycroft took another sip, hoping the liquid would wash it from his mind. "You are still sure about what we discussed? If you wish to change your mind about John's custody-"

"No."

Still slightly terrified at the idea, Mycroft nodded. "For his protection-"

"No." Sherlock didn't look at him but kept his head tipped to the ceiling. "Do not believe I am doing you a favour, Mycroft, I know my son. He will fight you every step of the way now; he will want action and danger, he will throw himself into both as often as he can and he has the means at his disposal to do so."

"Then perhaps our parents-"

"Of the three of you, you have always been the one to get through to him." Sherlock tipped his head back down, "Not to mention the security cameras."

"I would do it anyway."

Sherlock nodded without emotion. "He is…" Sherlock drew in a strangled breath. "You understand what I am trusting you with."

Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if he could see the exhausted boy above and nodded.

"Mother and Father are due in tomorrow morning," Mycroft told him suddenly, not entirely sure why he felt the need to pass the news on.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock ignored him in favour of staring at nothing. "His left eye flickers when he lies," Sherlock said suddenly. "A twitch of the muscle underneath, just above the cheek. And Anna wanted him to be a doctor…you should use it. Blackmail him into his studies if needs be."

"Sherlock-"

"And he has a girlfriend, or will when he stops dragging his feet. She's…" Sherlock seemed to weigh his words, then slumped slightly. "Not going to be of use, I imagine she will be yet another blow to him rather soon."

"You should sleep," Mycroft said, not really knowing what else to say in response.

"New phone," Sherlock said, ignoring him. "Only to be used in emergencies," he warned as he held out a scrap of paper with the number.

"Emergencies involving the network or John?"

"Emergencies I can do something about," Sherlock snapped. "I cannot return to him until the assassin is gone and Moriarty's empire is nothing; I will not risk his life like that."

Mycroft said nothing, finishing the drink as Sherlock stood with effort. "You need a doctor."

"Boat leaves in twenty minutes," Sherlock corrected. "I need to be on it. The airports are too difficult to get through like this."

"I will make the assassin my top priority. It would be expected of me anyway," Mycroft said softly. "I will text it to you when I can."

Sherlock hummed in agreement as Mycroft drew in breath-

"Don't," Sherlock ordered. "Just…don't."

Truly, Mycroft had no idea what he had been about to say. It could have been a hundred things between 'are you sure', 'sorry' and 'good luck'.

He wouldn't have said 'goodbye'. The likelihood of Sherlock surviving the next few years was low enough without Mycroft saying the word.

He hadn't realised he'd closed his eyes, but when he opened them Sherlock was gone.

Xxx

**Kandahar - 5th December 2013**

John riffled through his plate of food, scooping up rice with a fork while holding the map open with the other hand. The others had mocked him a while ago about the fact he was sitting on the floor, legs spread around the short coffee table that the map and his plate were resting on.

One didn't grow up with Sherlock Holmes and not know how to find the strangest spaces to eat.

"Anything good?" John asked as Bastian came back in. "You've been glued to that thing for days," he said nodding at the phone.

Bastian took a seat opposite John and, for the first time, John suddenly realised how quiet it was.

"Where are the others?" he asked.

"They don't need to be here for this," Bastian said quietly as he placed his gun on the table.

Slowly, John tapped the fork on the plate and then leaned back, resting against the base of the sofa. "And what is 'this'?" he asked calmly.

"You're skilled at spotting what's happening," Bastian said slowly. "Did your father teach you that?"

His heart started to thud in his chest, a loud drum beat that John was sure Bastian could hear. "I'm sure I never learned the lesson as well as he would have liked," John replied carefully.

Bastian studied him. A long hard look that John waited under.

"You aren't going to run? To lie?"

"I don't know what you know," John said even as he glanced at the doors. "Nor what you've ordered the others to do."

Bastian smiled. "Should have seen it," he said, leaning back into the chair easily. "Young boy, looking for trouble. I was being sentimental. It seemed like fate that another with such potential had stumbled into my path."

John kept quiet.

"Never once occurred to me that you might be Sherlock Holmes' son."

Shit.

"Didn't think you'd work it out that quickly," John said after thirty seconds, letting his voice go hoarse.

"And I never thought you would even know who I am, let alone come after me," Bastian replied.

"Sebastian Moran," John replied, staring at him. "Ex-Colonel. Assassin. Mercenary. Killer."

Bastian watched him.

"The man who plucked up Jim Moriarty and made him what he was," John said, feeling the anger grow.

Bastian stared to smile.

"Here I am," he said, offering his arms wide.

John glanced at the gun and swallowed as Bastian picked it up again.

Xxx

Three thousand miles away, Jakov Popovic glanced up from the picture he had been emailed and smiled at the man hanging in chains.


	7. Confirmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN - Given that it's been so long since I updated, i figure it's only fair to give you a double update. Chapter 8 and 9 are written and 10 is being started so I can definitely update every Friday from this point on!

**Kandahar – 7th December 2013**

The beating had been almost impressive. There was power in taking it; John knew that from years ago but this one…

Stiffly, he sat up and stared through the iron bars and into the darkness beyond. Bastian had kept the old cellars under the house; a pitch black, rodent infested shit hole that had stains dragged across it. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling beyond the make shift cell, unlit and a stabbing shadow in the darkness of John's prison.

His hands were bound in cuffs, wrists swollen from being pulled against the metal repeatedly. His chest ached fiercely, a pounding complaint that left him struggling for breath. He knew he was bleeding; could feel the way that his shirt stuck to his skin in clinging, heavy material that felt like it was becoming part of his still forming scabs.

That was probably dangerous.

He shifted, right into the corner, fingers brushing the bricks behind as he tried to find purchase and steady his breathing.

_Be smart._

**Serbia 11th December**

Jakov Popovic was a clever man. He had evaded capture, found alliances that allowed him to make a lot of money and gain a lot of power. There was a file on him upon Mycroft's desk that was as thick as his thumb.

He was, however, not quite clever enough.

The man he had left Sherlock with was a thug. A man without morals or compunctions (Popovic had been wise enough when selecting his…staff) but also a man who enjoyed beating someone a lot more when it was a personal vendetta.

"имају више вере," Sherlock muttered as the door slammed shut. "Ви губите време," he added, his head still hanging down and body seemingly lacking the strength to pull himself back up.

Mycroft uncrossed his boots and stood, walking over to his brother and eying the mess that was his back. Tangling his hand in Sherlock's longer, bedraggled hair, he raised his brother's head. "Can you walk?"

"Yes," came the sharp response. "But they have-"

Mycroft tapped at his jacket, watching the way Sherlock's eyes followed and then closed. "You are sure?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

"You are being insulting," Mycroft said, releasing Sherlock's head and trying to ignore the way that Sherlock let it hang. The crack about lack of sleep from the earlier thug may not have been far from the mark.

He checked his watch. They still had some time before the extraction and given the state of Sherlock it seemed unwise to wander the base and advertise that Sherlock was no longer being beaten. Hauling a chair over, Mycroft stood it in front of Sherlock and then used the keys he had gained to undo the cuffs binding Sherlock to the sides of the room.

It was hard to tell how long Sherlock had been practically hanging from his wrists for. For that matter, it had been hard to tell exactly when Sherlock had been captured and then recaptured. Reluctant to allow anything to get in the way, Mycroft re-cuffed Sherlock. His brother winced but nodded, eyes trained on the door as Mycroft placed the chair he'd been seated on earlier opposite Sherlock.

"Are we going to play interrogation?" Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes.

The boy that was guarding the door was probably still wearing his headphones. Probably was still unconcerned about what was happening beyond the door but it seemed foolish to take the risk. Besides, it was hardly difficult to code their discussion.

"Како ћемо почети?" Mycroft asked.

**London - March 2010**

"How shall we begin this then?" Victor Trevor asked as he sat opposite Mycroft, his attention focused solely on John who hummed as he tapped his fingers on the laptop.

Sherlock, nursing a wounded cheek, was sulking in the corner. "By not writing anything," he muttered.

John's eye-roll wasn't quite as withering as it had once been, back before his mother had died, but it was certainly returning to form. "With a hook," he said, ignoring Sherlock. "My teacher always bangs on about an attention grabbing beginning," he muttered with some derision.

"They are an international syndicate that will not take kindly to-" Sherlock broke off as he sat up from the sofa. "Mycroft," he ordered, flapping his hand in the direction of John and Victor. "I'm injured," he added when Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock Holmes, while gifted in many ways, is not so clever when it comes to people firing a gun in a reinforced tunnel that will cause a bullet to ricochet," Victor suggested.

"Sherlock Holmes will never bother to help imbecilic journalists again," Sherlock huffed.

"I wasn't shot," Victor pointed out with a grin as John started to type. "Ricochet only has one 'c'," he added.

John's gaze lifted up to Mycroft's almost sheepishly and then ducked back down to the screen. "You could write this," he mumbled.

"Your blog," Victor replied as he settled back. "Besides, I'm an eye-witness. I'll skew the story."

"Really?" John asked sounding interested. "So how does it work when you are travelling in war zones?"

"That's what editors are for," Victor said sounding a little distant for a few seconds. "That's why you need people like me and your uncle to check it."

There was another frustrated noise from Sherlock.

"So how did you do it?" John asked, whirling around to look at his father. "I mean…how much did you plan and how much did you just improvise?"

That probably wasn't a wise question. Next to John, Victor glanced up and over, unsurprisingly curious as to how intentionally he and his date had been used as bait. Mycroft remained silent; half interested to see how honest Sherlock would be.

"Wiggle room," Sherlock replied suddenly. "Always ensure you have the start of a plan for any situation and try to give yourself enough tools to use that plan."

John scowled and turned back to the lap top, mumbling something about stupid answers under his breath.

"That answer sounded like it gave a lot of 'wiggle room'," Victor said in a quiet voice.

"The mystery was solved," Sherlock said dismissively. "What more do you…" suddenly he trailed off and stared at Mycroft. "Why are you here, anyway?" he demanded. "Or are you just getting your fill of seeing me in pain?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to remind Sherlock of the last catastrophe they had encountered when dealing with Sherlock's difficulty with pain medication and boredom but it seemed like a futile task.

"He's editing," John muttered as he started to type again. "And he can translate you."

"You can translate me," Sherlock said, digging himself into the sofa again. "You do realise that he'll insist we do something useful with the money."

"Travel fund," John ordered, his fingers typing with some speed now. Behind him, Sherlock continued to stare, though it was one filled more with curiosity than vitriol.

"Another organised crime group," Mycroft said as he opened the paper. "Like puppets on strings."

The only indication that his message was being received was a minute narrowing of Sherlock's eyes.

Worryingly, John's eyes narrowed too and he glanced back as if to catch Sherlock. Thankfully, Sherlock was already waving a dismissive hand as he turned his attention to the ceiling.

There were days when it would be so much easier if John hadn't picked up the minutia of Sherlock's conversations.

**Serbia – 11th December**

The extraction team were late: irritatingly so and by seven minutes. While it was never wise to annoy the people that were occasionally promptly summoned to provide aid, it seemed that some form of retribution would need to occur to signify his frustration.

The minute that they were in the cars and driving out of danger, Sherlock's eyes glanced down at the tablet that Mycroft had in his jacket.

"Not now," Mycroft said, staring at nothing in particular. "Later."

Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to lack the strength to argue the point further. "Popovic?" Sherlock asked, shifting a little, his back causing pain as the bounced along the uneven roads in a truck that was hardly equipped for comfort. The blanket that Sherlock had been given was serviceable but harsh, rough against what had to be tender skin.

"Unknown," Mycroft replied honestly. Across from him, Sherlock frowned, a line drawing between his brows as he struggled to work something out in his exhausted state.

All in all it had been easy.

Perhaps too easy.

It didn't sit well.

"Drop me at the border," Sherlock ordered quietly, his voice grating on the words.

"What did you tell him?"

The question made Sherlock's head snap up, eyes narrowing and flaring with temper. "Nothing," Sherlock hissed. "There is nothing upon this earth that would make me-"

"He left," Mycroft said, trying to keep his voice calm. "He regained a prisoner and then left."

"I said nothing," Sherlock repeated, the bob of his throat revealing his nerves. "I said nothing," he said again, as if he were stuck on the idea.

Mycroft said nothing.

**Kandahar – 12th December 2013**

The sound of a chair scrapping along the surface pulled John from his fitful sleep. Someone had been in with him a few times to make sure that a fever didn't finish him off which probably wasn't a good sign.

Nor was it a great sign that Kavan was sitting himself on the chair like the smug prick he was, the light from the bulb almost blinding in its intensity after so many days down in the dark.

"You stink," Kavan sneered at him.

"Change the bucket then," John suggested, his mouth feeling like sandpaper it was so dry. As if he'd known, Kavan took a deep slug from a bottle of water that looked like a gift from the fucking gods. The prick made a show of enjoying it too.

"Sherlock Holmes' son," Kavan murmured. "How does it feel, Holmes? To know that the people that made Daddy do a swan dive are gonna waste you too?"

"Fuck you," John sneered and then refused to flinch when Kavan grabbed at the bars as if to claw his way in and finish off what had been started…what? A week ago? Two?

John had no concept of time anymore.

"When Moran gets back-"

"What?" John asked, leaning forward slightly. "What? You're gonna kill me. It's gonna be painful. What do you possibly have left to threaten me with?"

Kaven slammed his hand against the bars. "I'm voting for dogs," Kavan hissed. "Watch 'em pull you apart like a wishbone."

It scared him but he'd be damned if he was gonna let Kavan see that. "When is Moran getting back?" John said, hating the way his voice faltered. "I'm getting bored."

_Sherlock. ___

__There were days that he hated the word 'bored'._ _

__"Tomorrow," Kavan said with a sneer. "Then we can vote."_ _

__"Yeah," John said humourlessly. "That sounds like Bastian. Soul of fucking democracy he is."_ _

__Something ugly passed across Kavan's face and he turned on his heel, stomping out of the basement and hand punching out at the switch as he walked, plunging John back into darkness._ _

__Good._ _

__John shifted back against the wall and smiled._ _

__**Serbia – 12 December 2013** _ _

__After four hours, Mycroft had finally switched on the tablet and started to access the encrypted files. Despite the fact that Sherlock was meant to be resting, his unruly brother had stolen it off of him and copied everything across to a laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he sought to unlock the messages._ _

__"You should sleep," Mycroft said._ _

__"Later," Sherlock dismissed._ _

__Mm. "It will take you longer," Mycroft warned. "And your back needs to be seen-"_ _

__"If I had wanted someone to fuss I would have insisted that you bring our mother," Sherlock snapped._ _

__They sat in silence. Only the occasional glance from Sherlock indicated that he wanted news._ _

__"They're devastated," Mycroft said after a moment. "They lost both you and John in a matter of years. "_ _

__"I'm sure your latest addition helps matters."_ _

__Yes. "You are not replaceable," Mycroft settled for saying._ _

__A non-committal noise was all he received and, as responses from Sherlock went, it was probably the best he could hope for._ _

__For a while, only the tapping of Sherlock's fingers could be heard. Then: "Why were you distracted?"_ _

__Ah. That. "Appendicitis," Mycroft said as he stood. He wasn't foolish enough to stand at a window of give any indication as to who was on the room. Instead, he found himself studying the ruined shirt that Sherlock had been given. "I was…John was looking into your death. We had a heated discussion that I was…I did not handle well given that I was eager to get to the hospital. When I returned…"_ _

__John's empty room. The note. The smashed bottle of vodka._ _

__"He would not have left before checking that she was all right," Sherlock said quietly._ _

__"I told him," Mycroft said heavily. "I thought…I thought he would wait. As I said, I was distracted."_ _

__Sherlock met his eyes, a war seemingly going on within him as if torn between screaming in blind fury and a weary acceptance that life never quite seemed to go their way. A glance back at the screen turned into something else as Sherlock's fingers stopped moving and horror took over._ _

__His heart turned to ice as he moved, tilting the screen to see what Sherlock could._ _

__There, in black and white was a picture of John. Recent. It had to be recent. Standing by a wall that was of absolutely no help at all, his face shedding the puppy fat, chin stuck in that damned determined way._ _

__And a single word underneath._ _

___Confirmed._ _ _

__"No," Mycroft felt himself whisper as Sherlock suddenly started to tilt the screen as if to read something from a low resolution black and white picture against a wall that could be seen in a thousand and one places in the world._ _

__"He's gone to him," Sherlock said, his fingers flying over the keyboard with more speed, the picture and email minimising as he seemed to scour to find something else, anything else. "Popovic, there must be…trace him now," Sherlock ordered, head flying up and looking half wild._ _

__It was as if someone had carved out his insides, draped them on display and left him hollow and numb, aching with a pain that he couldn't quite comprehend yet. "Sherlock," he said, his voice wobbling._ _

__"Mycroft-"_ _

__"We couldn't track him and retrieve you," Mycroft said, his voice sounding far away._ _

__In front of his eyes, Sherlock started to shake. Emotion and denial and raw…raw…_ _

__Mycroft was on the floor somehow. He'd slid down the wall, clearly but…_ _

__Confirmed._ _

__"When was it sent?" Mycroft asked._ _

__Sherlock didn't reply. Instead, there was a horrible noise from him, as if he'd been separated from a limb._ _

__"Sherlock-"_ _

__"Seven days ago," Sherlock whispered._ _

__No._ _

__**Kandahar – 12th December 2013** _ _

__The two men outside his cell simply watched him. Bastian had his arms folded and was staring at John with thoughtful eyes which were probably, if John knew the psycho at all, weighing up how to kill him._ _

__The other, some pirate looking guy, was smirking as if all his birthdays had come at once._ _

__They'd locked the door above; John had heard the click of the lock sliding across the wooden grooves. It wouldn't hold forever but it would slow someone down._ _

__The new guy slid a key into the cell gate and twisted, the bars shuddering and squeaking as they were opened. For such a suspicious and guarded man, Bastian did not have the best cages in the world._ _

__Then again, his prisoners were probably far too beaten to try anything._ _

__They stepped in, Bastian turning and shutting the cage behind him and John stroked his fingers across the smooth surface behind him and then shifted._ _

__"See," Bastian said as he stood in front of John, his feet within kicking distance which made John curl in response. "What I don't get is how the hell you managed to find me."_ _

__"What's it matter?" John said, leaning his head back as he shifted again._ _

__"Ten to fifteen minutes of how long it takes you to die," Bastian said frankly._ _

__His friend smiled eagerly._ _

__What the hell did it matter now? It made no difference anymore._ _

__"I made a deal," John said, keeping his gaze darting between the two, ensuring that he never focused on one too long._ _

__"With?"_ _

__Jesus. "Dunno," John said, smiling at his own stupidity. "All I wanted was you. Dead. And knowing why."_ _

__"Like your chances?" Bastian sneered sarcastically, his eyes almost glowing with triumph._ _

__"Yeah," John said, catching his eye. "I do."_ _

__There was a flicker of realisation. Enough to make up for the fact that his original plan had failed._ _

__Still. Wiggle room._ _

__The gun that he'd hidden months ago in the cell, behind a loose brick, fired as smoothly as he had hoped._ _

__Once._ _

__Twice._ _

__The friend fell down, eyes staring without seeing as the blood dripped down from the hole between his eyes. Bastian staggered back, the chest wound already bleeding sluggishly as he stared down in shock._ _

__"Whoever they are, though," John said using everything he had to keep the gun aimed at Bastian, just in case. "They're on their way." He pulled out the phone that he had shoved in the hole as well and saw Bastian's face twitch when he realised that John had picked the locks on his cuffs._ _

__Three objects and the arrogant fuckers had never, ever thought to check their shithole of a prison, not in all the months and all the places that John had ever been taken to with them._ _

__"My men will be down here first," Bastian sneered._ _

__"So?" John asked. "You'll be dead. And you know why," he said, waving with the gun slightly. "Why did he do it?"_ _

__Bastian tilted his head. "You mean Moriarty or Holmes?"_ _

__John tried not to flinch. "Moriarty was a psycho," he hissed. "Why did my dad jump?"_ _

__Something was going on in Bastian's head and if John could have used the last of his strength to crawl inside his mind and see what was happening then he would have._ _

__"Because he lost," Bastian said, coughing up blood. "Because he failed." He laughed. "And look at his precious boy now. A murderer. My weapon. And if you survive this, boy, it's because of me. Not him."_ _

__John closed his finger over the trigger._ _

__"The thief, the son of a murderer." Bastian smiled, his teeth bloody and stained. "Jim told your father that he'd burn the heart out of him. And haven't I made good on that promise? You're what I forged in the ruins of the great detective's son." He shifted back and hissed. "And Grandma and Grandpa and your little family back home…they'll find out."_ _

__His vision blurred, stupidly._ _

__"And those that are mine will rip them apart like-"_ _

__John fired the gun again, Bastian's head thudding to the floor as the man lay motionless. For an age, John stared at nothing, listening to the sounds of his own ragged breathing before he heard an odd, dull clang._ _

__The gun had dropped from his hands._ _

__Surprised, he stared at it and then at the two bodies laying across from him. Men that he had killed, that he had planned to kill for months._ _

___You're what I forged in the ruins of the great detective's son._ _ _

__He sat, his hands shaking as he slowly lost the ability to see through his tears while upstairs the sound of gunfire echoed on._ _


	8. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to chappysmom for editing :)

**Yalikoy, Turkey - December 13th**

There was almost something reminiscent about the cliffs of Dover at Yalikoy, Mycroft thought as he stared out across the inlet. Next to them, lush green bushes waved in the wind and the sea drowned out any need to talk.

Sherlock stood, hands jammed deep into his pockets as he stared into the ocean. His longer hair hung around his face, his countenance a thing of stone with the exception of red rimmed eyes.

It taken them almost two days to accept that they didn't even know where to start, and they were over a week too late already.

"They'll ask," Sherlock said eventually, his voice dull. "What do we say when they ask?"

Dead.

Mycroft closed his eyes. "Popovic would want to confirm…" he hissed at his own choice of words. "He would want us to know. Surely? There would be a call or proof or…" He was holding onto a moronic idea with far too much hope.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, still using the disinterested tone. "I don't know if he knew who I was or…that…that stupid idiot," he hissed suddenly and ducked down to the ground, head hanging and hands tangling through his hair. "Afghanistan or Iraq," he said when he lifted his head, lips pressed to the prayer shape of his hands. "I don't know which one," he confessed. "I don't…" his voice crumbled away and ragged, unsteady breathing was left in its place.

It was too late, Mycroft thought as he forced his gaze away from his brother and into the sea, trying to accept it. They were now eight days after the confirmation, seven days since Popovic had left Sherlock. If Popovic had known where John was and had left immediately to find him then…

Somewhere, his nephew was a corpse and Mycroft still couldn't get him home. Tears filled his eyes as he continued to stare out, trying to ignore the strangled noises Sherlock made as he struggled to remain composed.

"Come home," he whispered.

"Why?" Sherlock asked after the longest time.

"I…" Mycroft swallowed and tried again. "Your loss would break my heart," he said not looking at Sherlock. "And I don't think either of us can bear this alone."

"They'll ask," Sherlock whispered. "I cannot…I cannot lie."

"He's still missing," Mycroft said, trying to regain control. "We…we have nothing concrete to tell."

Slowly, Sherlock turned to stare up at him and Mycroft forced himself to look down. Sherlock looked exhausted and, for the first time in Mycroft's memory, he looked old. Worn.

Lost.

Xxx

**Barka Oman – December 19th**

His injuries were starting to fade away. The fractured ribs were a pain in the arse but most of the dislocations had been easily reset and the swellings from tissue bruising had started to die down. Standing on one of the roof tops, leaning against the high wall, John stared out across the dotted roofs.

It was almost Christmas.

Reaching out for the water bottle, John took a deep swig, ignoring the pull on his ribs as he did it. He was getting good at that, ignoring things.

_My weapon_

"Sight-seeing?" Mary asked as she stood next to John and leaned down next to him. "This is terrible for your ribs," she added after a moment.

John said nothing and she sighed in quiet disapproval, like she hadn't been responsible for the death of half of Bastian's men a week ago.

"You've spoken to your superiors then," John said, taking a swig of water again and half wishing it was alcohol.

"They aren't happy," Mary said honestly, her gaze taking in everything happening on the rooftops around them. "But you did save the mission as much as possible. Moran is dead, his followers are either dead or have scattered. It would have been better to gain more information about the others he had trained-"

"Yeah," John said shortly. "Well it would have been better Bastian hadn't confirmed my identity but what you gonna do?"

She hummed. "Your employment isn't up."

John drew in a deep breath and then damn well regretted it. Determined for her not to see how much it pained him, John forced his face to remain blank. "What do they want?"

"Two months to fully recover and undergo further training," Mary said without emotion. "Then for you to finish off your agreement. You said you'd help us get twenty."

"How many are you short by?"

"Six," Mary said and that was a fucking lie because he'd helped her for over a year and seen the body count on his way out when he had stumbled between her and Stone. It seemed pointless to call her on it though.

"Six and I'm done," John agreed.

_And those that are mine will rip them apart._

Six was probably the least he had to deal with.

"We're moving out," Mary said, pushing off the wall and walking to the door. "Three more days and we'll be settled."

"In time for Christmas," John said bitterly.

She snorted. "If you like."

Xxx

**December 2011 - London**

The woman was beautiful. Like terrifyingly beautiful that made him instantly think of sex and things from the windows of Anne Summers, just a bit classier.

"Put that down," Sherlock muttered, taking the large photographs from John. He stood, hovering for a bit as if unsure what to do with them himself before he marched off with them to his bedroom.

If Sherlock was using them as wank material then John was gonna have to throw up somewhere. He remained where he was, staring at Sherlock's bedroom door with a slightly disgusted expression as his father reappeared.

"It's a case," Sherlock excused as he slunk back into the sitting room. "Mycroft gave them to me."

Right. That just got weirder and weirder and more disturbing. Making sure that Sherlock could see how gross that was, John adjusted the tinsel around the tree.

"It's not like…I mean…" John deliberately kept his back to his father. "You're not doing online dating, are you?"

"I'm not even dignifying that with a response," Sherlock huffed. "I do not…" he trailed off as if suddenly annoyed. "I do not need help meeting people."

Whoa. John whirled around in horror. "You meet people?" he half screeched.

Sherlock looked up as he opened the violin case. "I…" he trailed off and tried to push Earl Grey away with his foot as the moronic dog tried to sleep on his shoe. "You two," he said, pointing the bow at first John and then Earl Grey, "Are setting new definitions for the word stupid."

"And you haven't given me a straight answer since we started this discussion," John snapped back.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said suddenly. "I am so hideously scarred and feel so desperate for validation that I am spending morning, noon and night trying to find a partner that will simply accept me for me and give my life meaning and purpose."

Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly from the doorway and Sherlock spun, a slight look of horror crossing his face. For a moment, the two stood like statues, neither seeming sure how to deal with the situation.

"Dad's trying online dating."

"I am not-" Sherlock exploded and then turned to glare at John. "One more word and Christmas is cancelled."

"I'll go over your head," John decided lazily. "Do you have presents?" he asked Lestrade.

"I…" Lestrade glanced behind him and then smiled warmly. "Mrs Hudson," he greeted. "Sherlock was just filling us in on his love life."

The noise Sherlock made was almost inhuman.

Xxx

**December 2013 - Dover**

The night air was freezing but fresh after the plane. In the hours they had spent on-board, not one of them had said a word to the other. Even now, as Sherlock stood on the steps, eyes darting around to take in the sights and smells, there seemed to be something vital missing from him.

Their breath fogged in front of their faces yet still Sherlock didn't move.

"Brother?"

It seemed enough to jolt Sherlock from wherever his mind had gone and he nodded, feet starting to climb down the metal steps, ringing out a steady, hollow beat.

Anthea stood by the car, her face half shadowed and the usual blackberry was out of sight. She was wrapped up warmly and moved to one side as Mycroft and Sherlock approached.

Ordinarily there would be quips. Sherlock used to use John's-

The thought made his heart break. His nephew's predilection for Anthea's long legs and his good natured reaction about their countless jokes…had John ever fallen in love? Been fuelled by lust? Mycroft watched Sherlock, pale with some terrible emotion, simply open the car door and slide in with ease.

Anthea opened her mouth and then seemed to think better of it and all Mycroft could so was nod his thanks.

"Where to?" she asked.

"Home," Mycroft said with a heavy heart.

"Is that wise?" Anthea asked, glancing into the car.

"The damage is done," Mycroft said as he moved past her. "What more can they do now?"

Xxx

**December 25th- Ismailia – Egypt**

His back hit the sand, hard so John kicked up and grabbed sand with one of his fists. When his kick missed, he tossed the sand up into his opponent's eyes and rolled away.

All he got in return was a boot to his back, sending him sprawling again. In the next breath, he felt a knife snip across his nape.

"Dead," Finn declared.

Great. Rolling onto his back, John glared up at the sun and then turned his head to Mary who was sat on a chair, watching them like this was some kind of fucking entertainment show.

She raised an eyebrow.

So John reached for the hand lowering towards him and tugged, noting the approving smile even as he had to roll his body to try and use Finn's weight against him.

Again.


	9. Returning Home

**January 30th London**

Being in the flat was an agony like no other. It was so quiet, so clean. At some point, Mycroft had moved everything back over, tried to make it seem like nothing had changed.

Idiot.

A weight upon his feet made him almost smile. John's dog, the moronic puppy that Sherlock had accepted was laying on his feet, again. Earl Grey seemed to have little concept that anything had changed, trying to claim his favourite perch.

The only thing missing was John trying not to snigger about it.

Tears, hot and humiliating flooded his eyes and Sherlock scrubbed his hand over his forehead. John should be here, should be furious and angry and at university and getting drunk and stupid. Leaning forward, Sherlock rested against the window and watched the people below as they walked the streets.

He wanted his son with every bone in his body, with every thumping endless beat of his heart, with every thought he had ever had or would ever have.

His parents knew.

They hadn't talked about it. Even he and Mycroft couldn't speak of it but he had seen, after the shock of his reappearance had faded, his parents start to get quiet, to share horrified looks, to get quiet and reluctant to talk. Bridget had started to ask and had trailed off, staring at Mycroft as she bounced his niece.

None of them talked about it. At least not to him. His father had mentioned therapy once and Sherlock had simply walked out of the room. He couldn't even muster the effort to snap.

Lestrade had said something about cases but…

But.

Xxx

**2nd January 2006 – London**

It was pathetic how desperate he was to keep John in sight. To know he was safe and warm after spending a night out in the rain and alone. To that end he could almost justify laying on the sofa on his side, curled around his son as they hid in blankets and watched some utter garbage on the television.

Watching Aladdin was of zero interest to Sherlock. Instead, he smoothed his hand through John's hair, breathing in the scent of his child and trying not to move lest he disturbed the boy.

"Were you really so scared that you couldn't figure out where I'd gone?" John asked suddenly.

Ah.

For a moment, Sherlock considered lying. Pretending that of course he hadn't been so moronic but then what was the alternative? That Mycroft was more intelligent? That Mycroft had cared more or known John better?

"Yes," Sherlock replied quietly.

John wriggled around, wide eyes staring up at him looking so small and tiny that Sherlock wanted to wrap him up even tighter to protect him from the world. It was hard to tell exactly what John was looking for but his son turned towards him and then snuggled in close, burying his face into Sherlock's collarbone.

"Next time I'll find you," Sherlock promised, tightening his grip. John just nodded against him, full of trust. "I swear."

Xxx

**February 1st – London**

His niece was surprisingly sturdy on her feet. Sherlock watched from the sofa as she played with the net curtains by the window, Earl Grey watching from the fireplace, his eyes full of suspicion.

In the kitchen, Mycroft and Bridget were talking quietly as the smell of food wafted across the room.

He'd never asked Anna how long it had taken John to learn how to walk or talk or what his first word had been. Phoebe let out a delighted shriek as she tried to climb the curtains.

Sherlock moved without thought, seeing it happen before she fell. It was merely a lack of balance leading to her toppling to her back but the shock seemed to make tears well up in her eyes, chin wobbling as she let out a surprised noise.

He had her in his arms quickly, lifting her with ease to his shoulder to rock her as he stared out at the street below again.

"Are you all right with her?" Bridget asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded, feeling Phoebe's fear ebb away as she became more interested in his t-shirt collar and the hem of his dressing gown. His eyes, unbidden, fell on the picture that Mycroft had silently placed there; the one of John and Phoebe together. It had been taken a week before John had left; Phoebe a chubby looking thing with hair that was almost fashioned into a Mohawk, likely at his son's hands, and she was on John's lap looking up at him with a delighted smile as John laughed, looking down at her.

He'd loved her.

Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to put Phoebe down.

"Mumumumum," Phoebe shrieked, squirming to reach her hands towards Bridget. Accepting that she was more interested in her mother, Sherlock held her out to Bridget who took Phoebe quietly, her eyes lingering on the photograph.

"Have there been any cases?" she tried.

"No," Sherlock said, turning back to the sofa.

No.

Xxx

**February 10th – London**

John's room was silent, a fine layer of dust that had been disturbed only in the places that the boxes had been placed in. According to Mycroft, John had returned to the flat intermittently while Sherlock had been away and Mycroft had kept the room as it had been on the off chance that John would-

The thought made him ache. If only.

But he spent more time in the lounge and in the doorway here. If John had been visiting…

Sherlock turned abruptly on his heel, making his way down the stairs and through into his own room. Mycroft hadn't touched his room either, apparently claiming that it was John's job and never pushing John to do anything.

Sherlock stood staring at his own room. He'd barely entered the room since he'd returned. What would John have done?

Slowly entering, Sherlock smoothed his hand over the bed covers , his hands clawing in as he imaged his child laying there, upset and needing comfort.

Sitting on his bed, Sherlock studied the drawers and then leaned down so that he could see underneath the bed. Mycroft must have moved out most of the experiments after he had left but there was a thick layer of dust underneath the bed…

Sherlock reached out and caught the edge of one of the floorboards with his nail. There was less dust here, still more than would be expected but it was different in some way. The wood lifted up and-

Paper.

Seizing upon it, Sherlock climbed off the bed and dug in, pulling out what he could and dumping it on the bed.

There were the articles about his suicide and…and his own notes from early on in his games with Moriarty, ones that he had thought Mycroft had taken care of. A map and a receipt.

It took him a moment to process what he was seeing.

This was the start of John's plan to leave. Spreading everything out over the bed, Sherlock stared, his eyes dancing over everything and lingering over John's messy handwriting. His old phone was in there too, the bloody thief, along with another…

His phone…

Reaching into the desk table, Sherlock fumbled until he found a charger and plugged the phone in. Drumming his fingers onto the bed, he waited for the screen to light up and then scrolled through.

Nothing.

Pulling it out, Sherlock plugged in the other phone, a quick check of the sim card showing that it was a pay as you go phone.

There were texts right up until the week John had left.

Sherlock honestly didn't know whether to feel pride or sorrow. This had been the moment that his son had started on the path to-

He still couldn't think it. And ultimately, this was pointless, wasn't it? John wouldn't return because Sherlock had found his stash and research.

But then, perhaps he could find who John had gone to, perhaps he could track down his movement, find…something.

Or find who had been responsible. Who had John before…when Sherlock had been captured.

Sherlock opened the texts. Contacts from his own phone had been copied across, there was his style of texts as if John had been learning all he could from Sherlock's phone.

Agreements of meeting…not in America but in Portsmouth.

And…

Moran.

Sherlock threw the phone against the wall.

Xxx

"Sir?" Anthea said hesitantly on the speaker.

"Yes?"

"Sherlock Holmes is in the archives."

Mycroft stopped the notes he was making upon the document and looked at the speakers, flexing over the engraved surface he was holding. "The archives?" he asked placing the pen down carefully.

"Terrorising them."

Mycroft stood and walked over to the door, nodding to Anthea as he walked out. "Get me a driver," he requested as he reached for his coat. "It was bound to happen eventually." He hesitated after getting his coat on and reached for his scarf. "Do you know what he is looking for specifically?"

"Sebastian Moran," Anthea said looking uncomfortable.

Moran? He'd been a former affiliate of Moriarty but they'd parted company a while ago. Why on earth was Sherlock…

Hating that it confused him, Mycroft nodded to her and stepped outside to meet the car.

It didn't take long to get to the archives. The building looked the same as any other office building in London and there was a maze underground of files and folders too sensitive to risk any hacker with ambition and ample time getting into.

Sherlock was sat on the floor, folders spread out around him in a pattern as he tried to find the links.

"John was tracking Moran," Sherlock said without looking up.

"How would John even know-"

"He had a phone," Sherlock said. "Under my bed-"

Under Sherlock's bed. Mycroft let out a hiss of annoyance. Why hadn't he checked?

Damn seemed like an understatement.

"Why on earth was he tracking Moran?" Mycroft managed to ask.

"I don't know," Sherlock breathed. "And this…there's nothing here," he said sounding baffled. "How did he make the jump from Moriarty to Moran?"

"Who was he texting?"

Sherlock looked up and then lowered his gaze to the files again.

John had been in contact with someone who had known more than the British Government.

"Someone used him," Sherlock said, sitting back, his face looking chalky with horror.

"I'll get a list," Mycroft said tightly.

How had this happened?

Xxx

**Cantanzaro, Italy February 17th**

"Any time you're ready," Mary mumbled as she leaned against the wall.

"Any time you can beat me at doing this, you'll be welcome to it," John hissed up at her as he picked the locks to the hotel suite.

"You should have one thing that you're better at than me," Mary told him sweetly.

Yeah, whatever. The lock clicked and John stood, pushing the door open. The suite was still dark and it wouldn't be wise to put on the lights given that the windows led out to the streets and anyone with a half a brain would have worked out which window was theirs when they left to wine and dine the rich and stupid.

Mary slipped ahead of him, using her phone to take a picture as she riffled through the diary on the table.

"It's fancy for a mercenary," John said as he walked into the dressing room where the safes were usually kept.

Mary was damned careful not to react and John frowned as he made his way to the safe and pulled out the equipment needed to crack it. It was still a relatively new skill, albeit one that linked in well with the others he had learned as a child.

It took him longer than he would like to get into the safe. He could hear Mary rustling around the suite as he opened it up and pulled out the pile of passports, documents and a gun.

"Beep," Mary suddenly called and John hissed in annoyance, keeping the documents and shoving the passports back in the safe before closing and locking it, then replacing the false façade just as he heard the front door to the suite open. He had enough time to pack up his stuff and stand behind the door before the light switched on in the room he had been as another door opened.

It was pointless to try and escape at the moment. Lifting the papers close, John started to flick through.

They were in English.

John folded back until he found the first proper page and tilted his head as he read.

These were files. About people. Two people that from the looks of it seemed to be spies and one who was a politician, a governmental official…they all had surnames that started with H.

This was…Hallingdon, Hallik, Hamsworth, Herring…

John looked up as the shadow figure went into the bathroom and then flicked to the back of the pile.

Hyder and back again to Holmes.

Both of them.

John pulled the page out, jamming it into his pocket, then slid the folder underneath his jacket to conceal the fact he was carrying it if he and Mary were picked up on the CCTV later. It seemed damned unlikely given that Mary was anything but sloppy at her job but you never knew.

And, for the life of him, he couldn't work out why she'd brought him on this mission. Clearly it had nothing to do with Moran's collapsing network.

Slipping out of the suite, he walked down the hall knowing that she would fall into step with him eventually.

"You got it then?" Mary asked, reaching out to take his hand as if they were a couple. They smiled at guests that came in the other direction, polite as anything.

"Did you know what it was?"

"Mm," Mary said. "The car's out the front. Give me the folder."

John drew in a long breath as he tried to work out what to do.

"Keep yours," Mary said as they reached the lobby. Something in her tone made him frown and pull her close, studying her face as she leaned up, disguising their argument as something more passionate.

"Was this a mission you set?" John asked eventually, keeping his voice low.

She smiled. "Go home," she suggested. "Or at least read the files."

Go home? He wasn't…he really didn't think that John Watson existed anymore. The John whose mother had wanted him to be a doctor and whose grandparents had tried to install decent values.

Killers probably shouldn't have family ties.

"They'll follow me," he said quietly.

"They don't have to," Mary told him. "Someone's taken the name Moran and is starting to operate in London. Only someone who knows for certain that Moran is dead would do that. And those someones are going to be people who know you, know what you did-"

"They think I died there," John argued. "And they don't know what happened, not for sure-"

"It's enough," Mary argued as she pulled back. "There are certain days, John, when missions align with personal objectives. We need your uncle to remain alive. You want him to remain alive. We aren't stupid enough to believe that you'll follow our orders and you probably know London better than most of us."

"So what? John asked, narrowing his eyes. "This is a solo mission?"

"Call it what you will. You know how to get in contact if you need help-"

No. "I don't trust you," he said, narrowing his gaze. "You aren't telling me everything-"

"Of course I'm not," she said, seeming almost amused that he even felt the need to say that.

Right. Annoyed and still needing to find…a reason, an excuse, anything to stop him from having to go back, John glanced up the stairs. "And that?" he asked. "You needed those files."

"Bigger fish," Mary said, her fingers beckoning for the files. She seemed to consider her own words and then relented. "More of a threat to our organisation than Moran is. The press can be surprisingly dangerous," Mary said, still in that unconcerned almost pleasant tone. "The files."

The press? Not entirely sure that she wasn't playing some weird game with him, John slid the files out and gave them to Mary who wrapped her arms around them like she was a secretary about to go into a meeting.

"Who do you work for?"

Genuine amusement crossed her face this time. "That's the first time you've ever asked," she said sounding millimetres away from laughter. "But late now, isn't it? But, in the spirit of generosity…" She flashed him her phone, scrolling until he could see a picture.

Of Kavan.

"This is apparently Moran."

John froze and stared at the picture, trying not to allow his breathing to become ragged and strained. Furious, he shoved the folder at her and then walked in the opposite direction even as his mind raced because he wasn't his father, he couldn't work out the nuances of his choice and what each option would lead to.

Kavan thought he was dead, they all thought he was dead. His father was dead. Moriarty was dead.

But the rest of his family wasn't and John had no idea how far Kavan would go to avenge his psychopath brother.

Did he go back to defend them or stay away to draw Kavan out?

"You know him?" Mary asked, her face suddenly becoming serious. "There is nothing in any database around the world about him. How much of a threat-"

"It's not your problem," John snapped, turning away. Without a backwards glance, he strode out of the hotel, forcing his mind to calm so that he could work through the problem, the way Mycroft had tried to teach him for his maths problems.

Mary had said that Mycroft needed to remain alive which meant he was in danger. Kavan had taken on the mantle of Moran though Christ only knew why he'd gone for that name considering the other one he said he could claim. John had thought…a glance at the bodies on his way out of his cell, supported by Finn. He'd so completely thought that Kavan had been among them.

Pointless thinking about that. Kavan was alive, in London and running Moran's network, though fuck only knew how he was doing it in London given that Moran preferred mercenary work out in war riddled countries. Conducting clean-ups and being subtle were hardly Kavan's thing.

Kavan would have two reasons to go after Mycroft now. Sherlock and John had both annoyed him in some way and John had wounded his pride by being right under his nose.

He needed to go back.


	10. Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to chappysmom for basically editing five chapters yesterday! Massively grateful for that. And thank you to everyone who's reviewed- I really should get better at replying but work has been massively busy. I will work my way through you all!

**London February 18th 2014**

It had been years since Lucian had been inside 221b Baker Street. At first it had been too painful, and then it was understood that it was John's place of refuge. Then-

John.

There were no words for how that loss cut through him. The lack of answers, of definite proof, of even knowing whatever it was that Sherlock and Mycroft knew and mourned over. There was a deep welling fury that made him want to demand, to scream until his lungs were raw to find out what had happened to his grandson.

Except … except that he knew his sons better than anyone else. Knew that neither would have gone through with Sherlock's plan unless it was necessary. Knew that Sherlock and Mycroft's grief had to be deep to leave Sherlock quiet and biddable, Mycroft silent and obedient.

For the most part.

They had argued. He and Bella and Bridget had heard them at various times when Mycroft and Sherlock suddenly flared up with each other. Sherlock argued about Turkey and travelling and at least trying, while Mycroft would parry with claims about guess work and being too late and Sherlock's own inability to ask for help or listen.

He could piece it together. John's disappearance had always been a source of fear, given how Sherlock had 'died'. Evidently John, being far too much his father's son, had gone to avenge or … or whatever that idiotic boy had thought would be appropriate, and somehow it had gone wrong.

So wrong.

Shifting his granddaughter, Lucian let himself into the flat. Phoebe was wriggling, already muttering about Uncle S'lock which probably would have made John howl with amusement.

"Sherlock?" Lucian called up. "Are you in?"

He'd better be. He'd agreed to having Phoebe two weeks ago so that the four of them could go out with Bridget's parents.

The living room was a mess, a throwback to the days when Sherlock would get caught up with a case. It was odd, because so far Sherlock had shown absolutely no interest in cases or crime work.

"Sherlock?" Lucian asked quietly, shushing Phoebe. Earl Grey was playing with some paper in the corner, tearing something apart with great relish. A closer look confirmed it was the morning paper.

An odd banging thud echoed from upstairs where John's room was.

Climbing up the stairs, Lucian stepped over the drawer that had been tossed into the hall and peered into the open door.

John's room was a mess. Everything had been over-turned to the point where it looked as if the place had been raided. There were maps and pictures on the wall, as well as his son's scrawling handwriting in black felt tip.

"What is this?" Lucian asked, staring in horror.

"I'm working," Sherlock said, pulling out the next drawer and tossing the contents on the floor. He knelt and started to rifle through what was there, putting them into piles that probably made some sense to him.

Working? Lucian felt an odd twisting in his gut and he shook his head in disbelief. "You … you're working?" he asked, disgust starting to rise.

Did it really only take two months for Sherlock to mourn John?

Sherlock glanced up at him and then at Phoebe. "Oh," he said, eyes lingering on Lucian's granddaughter. "Can't," he said, turning his attention back to what he was doing.

"Can't?"

"Won't," Sherlock corrected in a familiar clipped tone.

The fury started to spark something within him. "If you are well enough to go on a case," Lucian spat, "Then are you well enough to tell me why you lied to us? Why you let us believe for years that you were dead? And why you haven't brought my grandson home."

Sherlock went still and suddenly looked ill. "I'm trying," he said, his voice wobbling in a completely unfamiliar way. "What do you think this is?"

"He's alive?"

Sherlock looked away as if struggling for words.

"Tell me-"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, suddenly quiet. The old game box in his hand dropped to the floor as Sherlock seemed to shrink and curl up around himself. "It was confirmed," he mumbled.

Confirmed?

Sitting on the bed, Lucian let Phoebe down and she reached out for a pile of John's clothes, inspecting them curiously. "What was confirmed?" Lucian asked slowly.

"A picture of John," Sherlock said, not looking at him. "The … there were assassins. Three: one on Lestrade; one on you and mother; and … and one on John. Mycroft and I found the one on Lestrade easily enough but," he shook his head. "If I lived then they would get their kill orders." He stared at nothing as if lost in his thoughts.

Lucian had no idea how to deal with that information. "And … and the one on us and John?"

Sherlock looked up, eyes red rimmed and bright. "Yours … was dealt with," he said and Lucian wasn't exactly sure if he wanted to know what that meant. "After … " Sherlock frowned and shook his head as if just the thought pained him. "Mycroft told me about John in September. I looked for him and … I got caught," he said and pressed his lips together as if to regain control.

Lucian didn't say a word.

"When Mycroft found me, the assassin had left, unexpectedly. We found an email with John's picture and … he'd gone. We travelled … we didn't know where John was but we tried to pick up Popovic . We got as far as Turkey before … "

"Before?"

"It had been eight days and the email … " Sherlock stared at nothing for a moment. "Do you know how big Afghanistan and Iraq are? And that was based on the assumption that I could still predict the son I hadn't seen in years -" Sherlock's voice drifted away, as if admitting that much was all he could give.

"Sherlock-" Lucian breathed.

"My son is rotting somewhere," Sherlock snarled. "And someone lured him out of Mycroft's home."

Lucian didn't say a word.

"And," Sherlock said, standing, "Whoever did it killed my son. And if they know where he is then … " he shook and then seemed to shake it away. "Then I can find him and bring him home."

The walls behind Sherlock were littered with maps. Information about networks that operated over in Afghanistan and Iraq, the name Moriarty and Moran with people spread around them, most with red crosses over their faces, some with question marks next to these.

"Normal people," Lucian said, his tone surprising even himself, "don't have assassins sent after their families. And normal people don't chase after more danger after they've already lost more than they can bear."

"Normal people," Sherlock said, not flinching, "aren't involved no matter what they do. Normal people don't have to worry about protecting what is left."

Lucian blinked and then reached to scoop up his granddaughter, holding her as tightly as he possibly could.

"This is what Mycroft and I brought down on our family," Sherlock said dully. "Take her from me, keep Mycroft away, do as you please. But someone … someone killed him and they did it thinking I was dead. Popovic didn't know who I was, if he had he would have taken me with him or … whoever killed John didn't know. And that means-"

Lucian felt like he could throw up. Without a word, he stood and clutched Phoebe even tighter to his chest.

How could they both be so stupid? His sons, so clever in their way but so bloody arrogant, so caught up in the delusion of their own self-importance.

He wanted to tell Sherlock that it was his fault, that no matter what happened it would be on him and Mycroft. That Sherlock should be buried under mountains of grief for what had happened to John. That Mycroft should feel ashamed and that every time he looked at his daughter, he should be aware of what he had brought down around her head.

They'd destroyed their family.

And Sherlock knew it already.

Lucian let out a disgusted noise. "I sincerely hope that whatever you won from your games with Moriarty was worth all this," he sneered.

Sherlock's eyes closed and the sight of his son in clear pain made Lucian freeze, torn between wanting to help and wanting to lash out and hurt him further.

In the end he walked away, not really trusting himself to make either move and not sure which he'd regret more.

Xxx

Three days later, the news flagged up the death of an ex-army man who'd been shot to death in his house with a message that made Lucian drop his coffee in horror.

"Investigations into the death have led many to believe that a network working under the organisation of a man called Moran are to blame-" the newscaster said in a calm, confident normal voice.

Moran.

_Normal people don't have to worry about protecting what is left._

He couldn't lose anything else.

xxx

**February 22nd**

The airports were clearly out. No matter if John had to come back, there was no way he was making contact with the Holmes family. They'd ask questions, and Mycroft would want to talk about the night before John had left and-

No.

So he returned the way that he'd left: by a boat that docked in Portsmouth. It was almost scary how easy it was to avoid being seen this time; when he'd left at the age of seventeen he'd been nervous, a little unsure and fuelled with righteous revenge. This time it was almost bor-

Normal.

God, that word wasn't much better.

There was something about being back in England that played havoc with him. Stealing a car and hot wiring it wouldn't have been worth a second thought a week ago but doing it here, on his home territory seemed wrong somehow.

So he risked the train and paid for the damned ticket himself. And got off at Clapham Junction rather than take the train all the way to Waterloo. The station was busy enough that he wouldn't be spotted but wouldn't face the risk of the massive security of the terminus.

It was strange to be back. More strange, because while his father had always lived in North London, this was where he had grown up as a young kid. He had three oyster cards on him to try and avoid setting up any pattern in case he was spotted and anyone attempted to use them to track him. It was a pain in the arse that no-one took change on the bus anymore.

The streets were familiar but in so many ways so different. Leaning his head close to the window, John let his eyes drag over the streets, watching people go about their days, watching business men and families and teenagers who sulked in their hoodies. So many people wore headphones that it was terrifying. It cut off an important sense-

Because they didn't need to worry about stuff like that, John remembered. Normal people didn't need to listen out for patterns that might signal danger or caution.

His hand shook.

For a moment, John stared at it in disbelief. He could aim a kill shot without needing to sight and adjust, he could fight without hesitation and his hand had never so much as wobbled. What was it … Baffled, he straightened out his fingers, forcing his hand flat upon his upper leg and then clenched to make a fist, squeezing as if to wring the tremor from his hand.

Standing, he pressed for the next stop and shrugged his bag over his shoulder, catching the eye of someone eying it up as if to snatch it. Almost amused, John shifted the weight and then dismissed the girl.

Amateur.

He got off at the stop before Victoria coach station and dug his hands into his pocket as he walked up, avoiding tourists and maps and those fucking wheeled suitcases. He spared a glance up at Grosevner Gardens before walking to catch another bus into the Marylebone area.

His feet led the way more than anything else. He knew how to avoid the CCTV, he'd watched his father do it enough times, had even had a few lessons in it before Sherlock had suddenly realised the possible fallout of teaching a soon-to-be-legal son the ways of sneaking around London.

Still, Sherlock hadn't been his only teacher.

_My weapon._

It was only when he got to the street sign for Baker Street that he paused. Looking up at the road, John froze; suddenly feeling a deep well of fear rise up within him.

It would never quite be home without Sherlock.

He was an idiot.

Turning away from the street, John started to go back the way he had come, mind already debating over who to see, who he needed to see, and what he needed to find out-

The newspaper grabbed his attention.

Moran.

 _The Evening Standard_ was always a safe shout. It would anonymise him as he read if he wanted to risk the tube. Surely, Mycroft couldn't still be employing people to scour the city for him, though with Mycroft you could never too sure of how anally retentive he could be.

Buses still seemed safer. And fuck it, they were cheaper and harder to track. Not to mention far easier to slip away from.

An ex-army man, now apparently turned saint for all the work he did with kids, called Robert Adair had been killed in his home. A sniper shot that reeked of Kavan because, although he was a fucking insane prick, he was also one of the best shots John had ever seen, short of Bastian. Which made a scary amount of sense given that Moriarty had dumped his kid brother on the mercenary and hadn't looked back.

He was in London. Killing.

Fucking fantastic.


	11. Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to chappysmom for editing so much! And this is likely to be about 20 chapters long now so...yeah. A few more to write!

There was a picture on the wall; one of Adair with a group of boys and a smile on his face. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at it, trying to take it all in as he examined Adair's home.

"Never seen anything like it," Lestrade said, arms folded as Sherlock walked around the crime scene. "I mean, not that I'm an expert, but a shot like that?" The idiot man let out an admiring whistle. "Military?"

"Sniper," Sherlock corrected as he stared at the neat bullet hold in the glass that was surrounded by a spider web network of tiny cracks, rippling out across the pane. The outline was upon the floor because the morons at Scotland Yard had imposed some sorts of rules to avoid their accountability being called into question again. "Moran was a sniper."

"You know him?" Lestrade asked quietly.

"The man who started Moriarty on the path," Sherlock said, still staring outside. "He was a soldier, advanced quickly and was removed quickly when his predilection for violence and backhanded deals was discovered. He was to be charged with treason but…these days good networking will always save your life."

"Great," Lestrade murmured. "So this thing with Moriarty isn't finished then?"

Sherlock turned back to him. "It doesn't make sense," he said, staring again at the outline. "Moran is opportunistic, he likes power and chaos. London is too civilised for him-"

"Unless he's after someone specific?" Lestrade asked and then cleared his throat. "I know, if he wanted you dead you would be, or you would have seen it three days before in that bloody crystal ball head of yours-"

"It's me," Sherlock said, feeling, well, nothing. Strange. Life had been so grey since he had returned, so meaningless and pointless. He'd half expected to feel a little more engaged with the world now that there was a case, or pleased at the chance of vengeance, or even simply relieved that death was on its way.

But there was still nothing. It was as if he'd experienced all that he could possibly ever feel. No parent was meant to outlive their child, fail to bury him, and then pretend that at least there was something to visit. It was as if the day John had left this world he'd taken everything that made Sherlock with him.

"You?" Lestrade asked. "But- What's your connection to Adair?"

"There is none," Sherlock said with a sniff. "I imagine this was necessity or business."

"And you are?"

"Personal," Sherlock said as he crouched down to the still evident blood stain.

"Because you made his protégée kill himself to win a game?" Lestrade asked doubtfully.

"Because I won," Sherlock agreed and then laughed, unable to keep it all back. "It's no fun unless you can play with your kill."

He'd won.

And lost everything that had mattered.

Xxx

There was probably something ironic about John's residence of choice given the few times that he had caught his father using, and the lecture he'd once had from his mother about why her friend Polly was an idiot and John should stay far away from crack dens for the rest of his life.

It was the easiest and best place though. John lived out of his bag, carrying it with him. He doubted half of the people were even aware that he existed. There was a shitty gym a few streets away and it was an easy walk to duck in, take a run and a shower.

His hand still kept shaking. The annoying tremor that had started while he was on the bus now kept jolting his hand when he was quiet and waiting.

He despised it.

And, he was running out of money quickly. The problem with being gone for almost eighteen months and trying to stay out of sight of Mycroft Holmes was that he had fuck all connections to draw upon. He needed to know where Kavan was and what his plans were and so far, John had nothing to work with other than to risk tailing his entire family for the rest of their lives.

Or…

John smoothed a finger over the ID badge that he'd lifted from one of the cleaners at Scotland Yard.

Or.

Xxx

The annoying thing about police was the fact that they worked late shifts. Getting in was no problem; not when you'd grown up on a diet of theft and confidence tricks and then, later on, watched your father exploit every loop hole in the book for his own amusement.

The problem was finding a way of getting to the information he needed about the Adair case without getting caught on camera or by an officer. Sherlock had never needed to worry about being caught, in fact, he'd seemed to take pride in it.

Shit.

Accepting that there was going to be no quiet way to do it, John snuck through the building, taking the familiar route in a game that he had played far too many times with Sherlock. The one called, how long can you stay in the blind spots?

It got him all the way up to Lestrade's office with ease. The camera in the corner was easily dealt with by picking up some of that disgusting gum that Lestrade still chewed to get over cigarettes and sticking the camera in place.

Someone would likely be along later to take a look when they noticed that the camera was no longer sweeping the room.

Booting up the computer rather than turn on the full lights, John tried the man's password and then frowned when it no longer worked.

A long shot then…

His father's did.

They really needed to clean their systems, he thought, even while grateful that his father's log in worked for every wall that came up as he accessed the network.

Adair. Moran. The bullets used, the gun. The witnesses. Adair had been military, had served years ago in a unit with Moran. Probably knew a few secrets.

Why had Kavan wanted him dead?

 _Turn it around,_ his father's voice suggested. _Look at a puzzle from all the angles._

Kavan wasn't just linked to Moran but also to Moriarty, the brother who had given him to Moran all those years ago. John doubted that they'd had much more than a passing few comments between them since but Kavan liked an old excuse.

John leaned back, turning the idea over in his mind.

How had Moran and Moriarty met in the first place?

Carl Powers had been Moriarty's first kill. John knew that but how had he gone from a kid killing other kids to a powerful man who could influence criminals and kill-

Don't even go there, he warned himself. It was far too easy to be distracted by the overwhelming pain that Sherlock could still cause.

Adair.

The list of contacts for Adair was long. Clearly he hadn't gone back to a normal civilian life after he had been discharged from the army.

There were a few old, familiar names on that list. Repeating them to himself three times, John stood and logged off the computer, pulling out some baby wipes to wipe down everything he had touched.

It was easy enough to open the window and slip out, keeping his hand covered by the wipes. Harder to shut it from the outside but he pushed it to and then edged along the slight ledge. Not a moment too soon it seemed as the light in Lestrade's office came on.

It was tempting, so so tempting, to peer back in and check if it was Lestrade. To see a familiar face after all this time but…

John jumped, landing on the opposite side on the lower window sill and then let himself drop the rest of the way, wincing as he rolled and distributed his weight rather than risk injuring his knees.

An officer came around the corner as John picked himself up. A frown crossed his face as he stood and raised an eyebrow.

"Palace?" John asked in a heavily Italian accent. "Uh...Queen?" he added hopefully as he dusted himself off.

The eye roll was truly withering. "No," the officer said frankly. "Passport?" he asked with a rough gesture.

John nodded and patted his coat and then his pocket, allowing a frown to cross his features. Muttering to himself in Italian (and being bloody grateful that the officer had no idea that John wasn't even managing complete sentences in the damned language), John let himself stumble upon the fake passport Mary had given him with a relieved, triumphant expression. Eagerly he waved it at the man's face.

There was a narrowed look as the officer looked between John's passport and John before he pulled out his phone and took a picture of it.

Thankfully, the picture looked a lot less like his old self. With any luck it would pass if someone ran it through the system. There was no reason really to even consider linking a random tourist to a missing person's list.

"Come on," the officer said handing it back. "Let's get you back on the right path."

"Uh..." John let a puzzled frown cross his face.

"Palace," the officer said with an exaggerated tone. "This way."

John smiled eagerly even as inside he winced at the idea.

God, he hoped the man didn't walk him up to the front gates. John couldn't stand dealing with tourists.

Xxx

There was an old pub that no-one in their right minds would ever go near. It looked old, uncared for; grass grew up through the cracks in splintered pavement and there was one window that was boarded up. A group usually stood outside with dissuading glares.

John ignored it all as he strode in.

Inside wasn't anywhere near as bad. Couldn't be really, otherwise police or health inspectors would have shut it down. As far as John was aware it was simply used as a meeting ground, all paraphernalia banned to ensure that the place kept on going.

Didn't hurt that it backed onto a house where more private deals could occur.

Suspicious eyes gazed at him as John walked in and sat himself at the bar, waiting patiently.

"You want something?" the barman asked.

"Hello Luca," John said calmly. "Where Robbie Stone?"

There was a long pause as Luca blinked at him, clearly trying to place John's face. "Who's asking?"

"John Watson."

There was another blink as the name seemed to dredge up fuzzy memories and then another one of disbelief. "Fuck me," Luca muttered. "You grew up."

"Kids do that," John agreed. "Robbie?"

"Where have you been?" Luca hissed at him. "Last I heard you'd skipped out your family-"

"I don't need a lecture," John said, avoiding his gaze.

"You need to leave and you need to go home," Luca said, lowering himself down because, Jesus, he was still as tall as a house. "You got a good life to go back to, kid. Robbie ain't a person you want to remind people that you know."

John smiled without humour. "Because of Moran?"

Luca's face went skilfully blank as he pulled back and studied John.

"I'll get you a beer," he said after a moment.

Great. John let out a breath and stared at the optics thoughtfully. Luca returned quickly with a pint, a coaster and a note of paper sandwiched in between the two.

"Kid," Luca said quietly as John lifted the beer to his lips and pocketed the note smoothly. "Whatever you're doing, you need to think twice."

"I've had three years to think about it," John replied as he put the beer down, debating how much he could get away with not drinking.

"But your father…things must have changed now. He can't approve of this."

"Course he can't," John snapped and fuck this because no-one came in here for a quiet drink. Standing, he gave Luca a nod. "You want to help? Keep quiet."

Luca stared at him, disapproval clear in his eyes. "You're a stubborn little shit, do you know that?"

Yeah. It had been mentioned.

"John?" Luca said. "Take some painkillers with you when you see him, would you?"

Painkillers?

John blinked and nodded.

Great.

Xxx

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft was sat in Sherlock's living room when he walked through the door to the flat. Once upon a time, Sherlock would have made a snide remark about his weight or lack of energy or general Mycroftness.

He didn't have the will for anything anymore. Instead, Sherlock waited and drew in a long breath as he folded his arms.

"Look, Sally's picked up the folders. She'll come by in the morning with them so don't even think about…" Lestrade trailed off as he entered the room and caught sight of Mycroft. "Oh," he said, squirming a little. He looked like he wanted to greet Mycroft, ask how he was, but knew the answer already.

Pointless to ask how someone was while they mourned.

"Stay," Mycroft instructed Lestrade as he stood, appearing to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I…" he cleared his throat, eyes darting to Sherlock and then away as if he couldn't bear to look but felt that he had to.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked as he stepped forward.

"I…a message to you was intercepted-" Mycroft broke off as if waiting for Sherlock to launch into a belligerent complaint about that, frowning slightly when it didn't happen. "It's…" he swallowed and looked away. "Probably necessary for you to see it," he said still not looking at Sherlock.

A dawning suspicion begun to break. "From Moran?"

A single nod.

"A threat?" Lestrade asked striding forward. "I'll-"

Mycroft shook his head, eyes sliding back to Sherlock. As if steeling himself, he reached to flip up the laptop on the table, entered a password and the screen lit up with a video waiting to be played.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked, feeling something hack at his throat, drop from his stomach, twist up everything inside of him-

"You know what it is," Mycroft whispered.

"Oh God," Lestrade breathed. "You can't let him watch that," he hissed, striding forward. "How can you even consider making him watch-"

"It's not…it's not his death," Mycroft said bluntly. "But…"

But.

Sherlock nodded at Mycroft, trying desperately to control his breathing. If he let his eyes flood with traitorous, useless tears then he wouldn't be able to work out where it had been filmed. He wouldn't have a chance of finding a way to bring his son home before Moran's games were finished.

Lestrade swore quietly as Mycroft pressed play, but he said nothing.

The resolution was poor, an ancient camera phone or something like it. It was dark and the sounds of flesh hitting flesh, of a pained grunt and then spluttered coughing seemed worse somehow because…because…

This was all he was going to get of his son.

"Bet you're feeling a bit stupid now," came a cracked, unclear voice that had an odd accent. Trying to detach himself from what he was hearing, Sherlock focused on the accent. Irish? American? There was something of a different twang in there as well and he narrowed his eyes as he tried to work it out.

The only answer was ragged breathing. Sherlock could just about make out a rough shape against the dark walls in the poorly pixilated picture.

"Bet you wish I could make it quicker. That I wasn't going to enjoy-"

There was the unmistakable sound of someone spitting and then the camera jostled and the sound of a vicious backhand rang out.

"God," Lestrade whispered.

"You're going to die like a stray dog," the man sneered and the camera fumbled again. "Rotting with the garbage."

Sherlock threw up before he even realised he was moving. Heaving gasps that chundered out more water and coffee than anything as he dimly heard Lestrade say something. Mycroft's cool hands held his head for a moment, steadying him as Sherlock fought to regain control.

"Finish it," Sherlock ordered hoarsely as he wiped his mouth and turned back to the screen. "Do it," he snarled when Mycroft hesitated, looking pale himself.

He'd already seen it, Sherlock realised.

"Don't do this to-" Lestrade begun and then let out a pained noise when Sherlock reached out to continue the clip again.

"-last requests," the man was saying and that accent would be his undoing, Sherlock swore to himself. There was no fucking way he was dying before this man had been erased from the earth.

There was a long laugh. Bitter and twisted. And then-

John was blindfolded. The rag was filthy, torn and smeared with grease and drops of something that might have been blood. His hair was flattened a little longer than Sherlock remembered. The puppy fat of youth still clung to his cheeks and there was a jut to his chin that made Sherlock want to scream through the screen, scream into the past to stop John from doing something stupid.

But, even as John's mouth opened and he slightly licked his lips as if gearing up to whatever insult was bubbling away in his throat, the screen went blank.

Sherlock clawed at it, needing to see more. Needing to see the almost-adult version of his child a bit longer, needing to see where he was or gain some clues about the person John had become. Dimly, he was aware of Lestrade and Mycroft pulling him back, and of screaming noises.

Just one second more.

Please.

Xxx

There was a corner of the dilapidated building that was just about free from needles. Kicking them to one side, John sat down, the window by him boarded up and as safe as he could get.

His hand, steady until now, threatened to shake and John tilted his head back against the wall as his mind wouldn't stop spinning what Luca had said to him.

_He can't approve of this._

What would his father say to it?

Nothing good probably. There he was, the son of Sherlock Holmes. Killer, criminal. Waste.

He skimmed off his jacket and then the jumper he was wearing. It was too easy to get used to the smell of unwashed bodies and dirty clothes when you lived the way he was. He'd nicked some clean clothes from a laundry place in one of the ancient buildings a few streets away and shoved his spares in a wash figuring someone would probably pick them up.

_Best way to avoid patterns in what you wear. Don't let yourself choose anything but what fits._

Sat in a t-shirt and jeans against the chill of the February air, John rubbed at his hands and then frowned at the scars running up his arms from the cigarettes they'd used on him. There was a long scar on his left arm too from a stray knife when he'd been out with Finn. Another slightly thicker scar was on his side from sparring with Vanter, one of Moran's men that had been shot dead when Mary and Finn had stormed the compound.

His back was a mess that he didn't even want to revisit. God only knew what an x-ray would show with the fractures he'd had and the medical care he'd seen.

_He can't approve of this._

It was done now though, wasn't it? He wasn't Sherlock's kid anymore, wasn't a child to be cared for or healed. This was what was left.

_You're what I forged in the ruins of the great detective's son_

The burns were slightly raised from the rest of his skin as he traced his fingers over them. Across, a slightly more aware crack user eyed him up suspiciously, eyes scanning John's things in an obvious way to check if there was anything worth stealing.

He could go to his grandparents. They'd be overjoyed, welcome him home, give him a bed to sleep in…god, a bed. How long had it been since he'd slept in a real bed, in a safe place? In a place where there was breakfast and television and-

His hand spasmed at the very idea and John didn't know whether to smile or cry as he leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the rotting ceiling, the beams looking precarious with the old wires snaking through to dip down low occasionally.

Jesus, he thought as he stared at his hand that still shook, even his own body was betraying him. Almost as if to remind him how broken he actually was.

_You're going to die like a stray dog, rotting with the garbage._

Probably.

But Kavan was going to rot with him.

Jutting out his chin, John pulled the papers close, the lights from outside giving him just enough light to work with. Fuck it if he was tired, it was hardly like he was a normal productive member of society who had to think about those things.

There was one person that he needed to kill, and being tired wasn't even close to being a realistic reason to stop and take a rest now.

Still, the first time he read his father's name he didn't really think about it, used to seeing it in the newspapers before he'd ran away.

_…with the help of Sherlock Holmes…_

_He can't approve of this._

John froze.

Everything in him froze until he felt lightheaded from lack of breath.

For the longest time he felt like he couldn't move, couldn't think.

Without allowing himself to even begin going there, he reached out for his phone and searched Sherlock Holmes, not caring that a few around him perked up at the sight of something they could sell for their next score.

_Back from the dead._

He sat and stared at the screen long after it timed out and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - History and will be posted on Friday :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, had a rubbish day so here you all go. Warning, the ending isn't any less of a cliff hanger than what came before!
> 
> Thanks to chappysmom for editing :)

**February - London**

It was a Sunday.

He stood at the edge of the street, his coat flapping in the wind and scarf waving like a banner. Hands tucked deeply into the pockets and covered by leather gloves for ease in case he needed the gun underneath.

It was raining and he needed the umbrella which was kept low over his face. He didn't hold a paper or a dog or anything else. People overcomplicated a disguise, he knew that. So there he was, just a man, standing and waiting for someone at the end of the road.

Waiting to see if they'd kept up the tradition.

Xxx

**July 2012 - London**

"You need to eat," Mycroft coaxed John as he lay in the bed, staring at nothing.

"I ate yesterday," John replied in a dull tone.

"He wouldn't want-"

"He jumped off a building," John snarled, turning suddenly. "He didn't want me. Why should I care what he wants?"

There was a twisted pleasure in watching Mycroft's face drop in horror. He'd been so good, so calm, so perfect in his grief and John wasn't, and he hated Mycroft for it because…

Because John hadn't been enough and now everyone knew that it was his fault, that he hadn't been enough to make Sherlock step back from the ledge.

"What he wanted," John said suddenly, not sure why it was important to get the tense right. "Wanted."

The number of times that Mycroft's breath hitched, as if he were trying to think of the right thing to say, would have been hilarious if the circumstances were different. "I need you to eat," Mycroft said eventually.

"I need you to go away," John replied, dropping back down to the bed that was seriously starting to smell now. That dull, putrid smell of grief and despair.

"They want to see you," Mycroft said again but there was a defeated tone to his voice now, as if he knew it would be pointless.

No.

You're poison.

Two parents down, both had killed themselves. Neither had thought him enough.

And if they hadn't, why should anyone else? And he could prove it. Of course he could fucking prove it. He could make them turn on him and hate him and see that he wasn't worth it and he could be right and then it wouldn't hurt so much.

So fuck those Sunday dinners.

Xxx

**February 2014- London**

The car pulled up and John watched as Bridget got out with Phoebe who was so big now that John dipped his umbrella and turned away as if frustrated by the person he was waiting for rather than watch. They were good and clean and perfectly normal. Nothing to do with him anymore.

They spoke quietly and then Bridget nodded and ducked out from under the umbrella, up the steps, shifting Phoebe to pull out the keys and let herself into his grandparents' house.

Mycroft was with them, he realised when he looked back again. Holding his own umbrella but higher than usual as he covered his family from the rain.

He looked…old.

Mycroft stayed behind.

Unable to risk standing out in the street with Mycroft, John turned and walked away. His feet taking him the familiar route as if to the bus stop that led to Baker Street.

His father never arrived. John swallowed. He'd wasted enough time trying to catch a glimpse of the man. What did it matter, as long as he was alive and safe and back home?

And John had things he should be doing, he thought as he stared at the address that Luca had given him.

Xxx

The room stunk of disinfectant and the sweat of a man who was doing his best not to die in the cheap bed. The council flat was tiny, dull and so boring in its construction that Sherlock could feel his mind straining just from being sat inside one for ten minutes.

Robert Stone had not been an easy man to track down, less so since he'd been shot. He seemed to want to stay hidden as well; there wasn't a phone in sight, nor was there any sign of a computer or anything that could communicate with the outside world.

"Moran?" Sherlock asked as he sat at the table, staring at the man in the bed. "He shot you?"

One side of Stone's face was covered in gauze. The rather hard faced woman at the door had muttered that the bullet had caught his cheek and ear, the damage more cosmetic than anything else. It was the wound in his side that was still likely to kill him and, from the look in both Stone's face and his nurses, they all knew it.

There was a sharp nod. "Yeah," Stone started suspiciously. "How did you find me?"

"In a way only I could," Sherlock said, not sure why he bothered to soothe someone who had an expiration date almost tattooed on their forehead. "I assume he has hackers then?"

Stone shifted and then gasped at the movement. "Why are you here?" he asked. "I don't…" he frowned. "John," he decided after a moment. "He actually ran away didn't he? Your brother claimed he'd sent John away, somewhere safe and warm but…" Stone tried to sit up further. "I told Anna I'd help him-"

"He's dead." Sherlock refused to think about the word too much.

There was a long horrified silence and then Stone sat back." You think it was Moran?" Stone asked tightly as his face clouded with pain.

Sherlock reached for his phone and pulled up the clip. He handed it over and stared out of the window as he heard the familiar sounds from John's last few days.

He knew every second of that recording now. Every hitched breath his son had made, the seven blows that had been knocked into him in the space of a three minute recording.

"He was going after Moran," Sherlock said as he narrowed his gaze at the grey sky before drawing his attention back to Stone. "I need the connection between Adair and Moran and you."

"That's not Moran," Stone said as he handed the phone back with an agonised wince, the move clearly costing him. "Moran…he collects people. He…" Stone seemed to debate with himself. "Uses Yois to collect them."

"Young offenders," Sherlock murmured. "You and Moriarty? I was under the impression-"

Stone shifted. "I ain't got a record either. Not from then," Stone said. "The power of Sebastian Moran. He knew everyone. And everyone owed him. Moriarty…Jesus, he was a hobbit back then."

"Shocking," Sherlock murmured. "How was he caught?"

"Something about setting a classmate on fire," Stone said staring at Sherlock with disbelief. "They moved him and his psychopathic brother over here. No-one in London gives a shit about some Irish brats-"

Sherlock leaned forward. "Brother?"

"Younger brother," Stone confirmed. "Compared to him, Jim was as good as fucking gold. They took him in 'cause they thought he'd helped Kevin to set that kid alight but he was out like that," he said, clicking the fingers on his good hand. "No gate fever, nothing. Then he popped in to see Kevin every so often-"

"Kevin?"

"The younger Moriarty," Stone explained. "Moran greased a few palms and we got lost in the system. Made some connections, saw a bit of the world. I came back here. They didn't."

A brother. A younger brother…"America?" Sherlock asked carefully. "Did he take you to America?"

"Deep South," Stone confirmed. "Why-?" he looked down at Sherlock's phone and seemed to weigh it up. "Could be," he said with a nod. "I dunno. Kid was way younger than me. Like six when he was shipped over? I knew Jim and then we shared visiting rooms occasionally. Then Moran…"

"Six year olds don't go to Young Offenders. And you would have been, what seventeen? Six year olds don't go in with seventeen year olds, they aren't even seen by them," Sherlock snapped.

Stone smiled humourlessly. "He was the devil," he snarled. "They didn't know where to put him. They were glad to be rid of him. As far as I know, he was in isolation and then visiting times was with us. Most thought he should have been drowned, little shit. Completely insane."

"Parents?"

Stone shrugged. "No-one ever came for them."

Sherlock drew in a long breath. "Adair," he said slowly. "He used to work with difficult children."

"Yeah," Stone confirmed. "He got Moran generations of criminals to raise and encourage. Even Adair was…Kevin was sick. I think he'd have preferred to do him over with a house brick."

"And yet, you introduced Anna to his brother-"

"No," Stone snarled, leaning forward and paling from the movement. "I didn't know her. She knew JJ who…we'd known each other back in a home. He'd had some contact with one of the Moriartys, I ain't sure which one, but he met her first. He found her dipping in the streets with John and he offered her a place. When she told him about…" Stone suddenly trailed off.

"Oliver Winters," Sherlock said, refusing to be distracted by the sheer disgust he felt for that thing that had dared to hurt his child.

Stone nodded. "He suggested Jim. Who, as far as we knew then was…well, not good but-"

"A hobbit," Sherlock said mockingly. "A model prisoner." He sneered at the thought. "You're all morons."

"Yeah, well… in hindsight…Christ knows what he did to his brother because there's no way a kid is born like that but…" Stone let out a sigh. "Look, rumour is…rumour is Moran got it at the start of this year. And I tell you, if it was the Moran I knew? I'd be dead and Adair would be enjoying a shit load of whiskey right now. Those rumours…if they are true then we're dealing with a real psychopath who has no concept of rules or loyalty or anything past enjoying making people suffer."

"He wants revenge," Sherlock said, rubbing at his forehead.

"So do you."

That was true. Sherlock dropped his hand to the chair arm and stared at Stone. "You're dying," he decided.

"Probably," Stone agreed.

They sat in silence and then Stone let out a breath. "Look, he won't last. Acting like this? He's not Jim and he's not Bastian. He can't build up a network. People will turn against him. It's just…" Stone pulled a strange face. "My old gang, they helped raise that kid. They'll help you, if you need it. Half of them are probably on Kevin's list anyway."

Without saying a word, Sherlock stood and pocketed his phone, watching the dying man on the bed as he did so. It seemed expected that he should say something but…honestly, Sherlock had no words of peace to give.

"You have their names," Stone added. "John gave 'em to you once, right?"

"Numbers change."

"Some don't," Stone said with a small smile.

"Who would have been tracking him?" Sherlock asked suddenly. "Some…some organisation lured John out to play at…" he twisted the words back in, knowing that his impotent fury about it wouldn't help. "Who would it be?"

Stone stared at him. "Honestly? Probably the kids he threw away. If John got anywhere close to Moran then there's no way it's some fancy agency."

It hardly helped.

xxx

Outside the council block, Sherlock rolled his eyes at the amount of missed calls he'd had from Lestrade. Striding out, he dialled the man's number with his thumb and walked to the main road to flag down a taxi.

"We have a problem," Lestrade said as soon as Sherlock answered the phone.

When didn't they? "I have the connection between Moran, Moriarty and Adair-"

"Someone logged on last night with your details."

Sherlock stopped and tilted his head, trying to work that out. "Into the system?"

"Yep. Looking for this investigation. You're fucking lucky I was with you-"

Sherlock turned back to the building. "Why would someone log in to a crime they've committed?"

"To find out how much we know?"

Pointless. "Every password?"

"Every single one," Lestrade said with a long shuddered breath. "Not one error. Not one mistake."

Sherlock leaned against the wall, the wind suddenly stolen from him. "John. He knew…" he pressed his head into the brick work, trying to get control. "They got it from John."

"There's no way the kid would-"

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying not to see the images that were threatening to emerge as he thought about his son's last few days alive. Already beaten, still defiant. To go from that to someone who would give out something like Sherlock's passwords?

"If you get in my way," he snarled down the phone at Lestrade. "I will go straight through you."

"Sherlock-" Lestrade tried to protest. "Don't-"

He hung up.

Xxx

By the time John pulled himself together to track down the address Luca had given him, he arrived to a corpse.

Two of them.

As he stood in the doorway, staring down at the mangled body of his mother's former friend, John felt the cold edge of a knife being pressed into his neck.

"Looking for someone?" Joey's voice echoed in his ear.

Great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - Traps!


	13. Traps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to chappysmom who's being amazing with ploting :D

John stayed exactly where he was, hands spread out to indicate that he had nothing in them. It took a fuck load of will power to bite his lip and say nothing when Joey reached into the back of John's jeans and took out the gun he'd slipped in there.

It was tossed to the far side of the room and the knife was pressed a little firmer against his jugular.

"Who are you?"

Joey didn't know. As far as he was concerned John was dead. It gave him the element of surprise…thing was, Joey probably had a phone on him and one quick call would have the entire fury of Kavan rain down onto his family.

Shit.

And it wasn't as if Joey was the most patient man on the planet. He'd been chomping at the bit when Bastian had tried to teach the ex-military arsehole.

The knife shifted, staying roughly where it was as Joey's grip changed, allowing him to circle around John.

Out of the window, beyond Stone's still-bleeding body, was a garage roof and then beyond that was the walkway that led into the slightly higher part of a train station.

That would do.

"What the-"

John didn't wait for a gold-plated invitation. Instead, he kicked out at Joey, the shock allowing him to send Joey completely off balance. Not stopping for a damned thing, John threw himself through the window and landed slightly awkwardly on the roof.

That was so going to hurt later on. Thing was, he didn't have time to pause and instead rolled to his feet, aiming for the walkway. A thud behind him made him nearly scream in frustration.

Double shit.

There was a group of lads, probably his age, sitting and smoking a joint as he jumped down. They gave him an odd look and then he didn't have a single second to think as Joey landed and swung at him with the knife as they fell to the ground.

Using the momentum of Joey's fall, John kicked him over his head and twisted at the wrist that held the knife, booting Joey in the face as the man tried to wriggle back on. The guy was strong, bigger than John was, but John still had the element of surprise and a hell of a lot more will power than Joey did. He pulled down on the knife, trying to pull through the weak spot of Joey's grip as he kicked up at Joey's wrist with his foot. There was a yelp of shock, and Joey let go as he moved with the kick rather than hold against it and get his arm broken. Freed, John rolled away and flipped to his feet in time to glimpse Joey going for his phone.

"That's cool," one of the lads said. John glanced at them and then blinked in disbelief as one had his phone out, apparently recording the whole thing.

Seriously? He glanced at Joey. It was either throw the knife at his hand, kill him, or run.

And have recorded evidence? Risk Joey getting hold of the knife and gutting him like a pig in the streets to later parade in front of his father?

No chance.

John turned on his heel and started to head down the street, running at full pelt as he heard Joey scramble up and start to chase after him.

Thing was, Joey had signed up while living in Surrey and barely knew London. But John? This was John's home and he'd been raised by a man who had a living, working map in his head.

Losing him would be easy as hell.

Dealing with that phone call? That was gonna be way harder.

Xxx

"You need to calm down," Lestrade said as he stood waiting at Sherlock's front door.

The very idea made Sherlock want to sneer. "Get out of my way."

"I'm being serious," Lestrade said firmly. "You are unstable at the moment and-"

"They tortured my son," Sherlock screamed at him. "They beat him, tortured him, and then killed him. My son." He drew in shuddering breaths. "And you want to offer what? Useless advice? You and I both know exactly what I will do when I find this man. And if you think for one moment that I care about the consequences, then you are a bigger moron than I thought."

With that, Sherlock turned to the door, intent on ignoring the Inspector.

"There's been an anonymous tip," Lestrade said sounding quiet after the force of Sherlock's words. "Moran is going after your parents."

What?

Sherlock turned, frowning at Lestrade. "No, he isn't," he said frankly.

"The same tip off claimed that Robert Stone could be found dead at-"

"He was dying, any idiot could tell you that," Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah, he was pretty much ripped apart. Girlfriend too," Lestrade added. "Gun on the floor, it's being looked at for prints now. Group of lads saw…a full out proper fight." He seemed to hesitate and then rolled his eyes. "Like kung fu," he added, his pain at the quote obvious. "An officer's with them now but you need to get in the car and-"

"It makes no sense," Sherlock muttered, turning away from the door, baffled. "He was playing with me and now…" He shook his head, trying to understand why it didn't add up.

"You need to get in the car-" Lestrade tried again.

"I'm not getting in the car," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand. Instead, he turned back to the door and opened it.

"Your parents-"

"Please, they have half of MI6 watching them when Mycroft's feeling bored. I doubt anything could get through to them."

"Someone got to John," Lestrade pointed out.

That…that was playing dirty and they both knew it. But someone had got to him and…

Turning, Sherlock stared at Lestrade and then out down the street as the light was turning pink with dusk. "Do you not think," Sherlock said slowly, "That my being there will be more dangerous for them?"

Lestrade seemed to hesitate and then opened his mouth, looking guilty before he even spoke.

"If you play the John card again, I will not be responsible for my actions," Sherlock warned and watched Lestrade's mouth clamp shut. But the irritating man pressed his lips together, hummed and then sighed. "Every parent deserves to know their child is safe."

Sherlock looked away again. There were days he doubted that his parents would ever forgive him for the trick he had played, days where they stared at him like he was a ghost.

He shook his head. "We don't work without John. Without a child…and I bring more danger to Phoebe than I do protection." He met Lestrade's eyes carefully. "Bring me what you have."

"If you kill in cold blood-"

"It will not be the first time," Sherlock said simply.

"But it will be the first time it sticks," Lestrade warned. "You won't wriggle out of this one."

The smiled that crossed his face felt so bitter that he thought his face would crack with it. "I have nothing left to wriggle out for," he said as he stepped towards the flat. "Go. This Moran will have nothing resembling a plan-"

"Not exactly your forte," Lestrade said, a quiet fear burning in his eyes.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "But thankfully, teenagers never have a plan. Raising one has left me with some skills."

He opened the door when Lestrade's voice rang out. "John wouldn't want you to do this."

Sherlock's fingers gripped the door so hard that he thought he'd splinter the wood or shatter his bones. "And yet it is exactly what he would do." He turned to close the door. "I raised a hypocrite."

And with that, he slammed the front door shut before striding to find Mrs Hudson and suggest she take a long trip to her sisters.

Immediately.

Xxx

Somehow, John managed to lose Joey somewhere in Vauxhall just as night begun to draw in. Calling in a tip hadn't exactly been easy while running for his life, but far better than calling Mycroft's office and dealing with the procedures required to get hold of him.

Thudding down on the next-to-last seat of a bus, John drew his coat closer around him, the knife up his sleeve and flat against his skin to avoid any accidental slips. Running a hand through his sweat soaked hair, he dialled again.

Mary picked up on the fourth ring. "You look good when you sweat," she chirped.

"You're in London," John sighed as he settled against the window of the bus and kept an eye on those getting on.

"And you were right. Moran's little gang of merry men are getting closer and closer to your grandparents' house. Why them?"

"Because it will draw both of us," John said and then winced. "Or all three of us. It's Sunday dinner still, knowing my grandmother," John added glaring at the roof. "Pretty sure I'll be the priority but you never know. And he won't trust Joey," John said. "Not until he's seen for himself. He's a paranoid bas…" he trailed off when he saw a small kid with huge brown glossy eyes stare at him curiously. The kid was standing on his own seat and had rested his chin on the seat edge while the mother was distracted with her phone.

"...ist," John finished off.

"Ahh, those killer band members are such a pain."

Bloody hell. "Is this a joke?" he asked trying to keep his voice down. "And for that matter, how much did you know about my father?"

"But you're such a paranoid bassist," Mary replied sweetly.

John was pretty sure that he could actually wring her neck right now. "Can we attempt to deal with this slightly seriously?"

Mary hummed. "I can't get close enough to get a clean shot at him. Know any vantage points?"

John stretched and shifted so that he could see the whole bus, debating the wisdom of having the conversation in such a public place. "Opposite," he said in a frank voice. The kid tilted his head curiously and then, seeming bored of John, turned back to thud next to his mother who smiled absently at him and stroked his hair as she talked into her own phone.

"Your grandparents? Won't the people there mind?"

"It's empty," John replied. "Always has been."

There was a long pause. "Except when there's a threat, I assume? If your Uncle keeps it empty so it can't be used then how likely is it that his own men are in there now?"

"Highly," John said. "But, best view of the city."

There was a tsking noise as Mary seemed to have some inward debate. "How long until you get here?"

"Hour, maybe less," John said.

"Your father isn't there."

"He won't be," John said. "Please, the last place he'll go is somewhere safe."

"Like father, like son," Mary accused before she hung up.

Yeah. Something like that.

Xxx

"Did you do something recently?" Sherlock accused.

"Something like meeting up with one of his old prison friends? No, Sherlock, I believe that was you," Mycroft replied, sounding apoplectic over the phone.

"That's not enough," Sherlock hissed as he paced the flat.

"Not enough? Sherlock, we are currently surrounded by MI6 because I'm stuck having Sunday lunch. Would you like to explain what about this is not enough to drive most people into a fit of rage?"

"I meant for Moran or…this Kevin Moriarty, not you."

"You should be here," Mycroft said tightly. "I am currently being locked out of systems because evidently I cannot be rational in this situation." He drew in a long irritated breath. "And mother will not stop flapping over the fact that you are not here-"

Sherlock had very little interest in dealing with that nugget of information. "You want the person that Moran is most angry with to be in the same room as your daughter? I believe they were right to remove your toys, Mycroft."

"You and I worked together. Why would you be more of a target?"

"I was with Moriarty when he put a bullet in his brain. I feel you lack proximity. As usual."

There was a long silence. "He will come," Mycroft said slowly. "Regardless. He knows it will hurt you."

It honestly felt like there was nothing left that could hurt him after the wound that was John's death. But there was his niece and his brother and his parents and his sister-in-law. An entire family that John would probably fight to the death to protect.

Feeling himself relent, Sherlock shook his head and reached for his keys. "I'm not hiding inside the house," he said firmly.

There was the longest silence. "I can't let Phoebe be hurt," Mycroft said, sounding wretched.

It made Sherlock stop and glance at the photograph of his son. "I would never wish it upon you," he said softly. "And John wouldn't want her to grow up the way he did."

"Sherlock-"

He hung up. One way or another, it was the last time one of their children would be separated from a parent.

Xxx

The roads were closed. Both the actual road and the one that the house backed onto. Police lines were up and there were a lot of people standing around, waiting.

"Well, I'm in," Mary sing-songed in his ear. "Can you manage, darling?"

"Stop talking to me like we're a married couple," John snapped as he wandered down the street. "You'd kill me in my sleep."

"Want to test it out?"

That…sounded like an invitation. "I'm really not sure that this is the best time," John said honestly and almost smiled when she laughed. "Are you seriously in the middle of a house filled with MI6, pointing a gun, and flirting with me?"

"It's not boring," she said.

"Yeah," John agreed as he turned up the street three over from the one his grandparents lived on. "What are the chances that I'm doing the exact same thing that Kavan is doing?"

"High," she said, sounding serious now. "He won't be alone, John. You'll need to lead them here if you catch sight of him."

"You seriously think he'd chase me into a street filled with people that will happily kill him?" John asked as he eyed up a house thoughtfully.

"The Moriarty version of winning isn't exactly the same as other people's," Mary reminded John.

True.

"See you in a bit then."

"Promise I won't shoot you," she replied with what he knew was probably a cheeky smile.

John hung up the phone and blinked up at the road he was on. There were so many lights on that he wanted to scream. Why the hell did this have to happen on a Sunday night when most normal and sane people were at home? The sole exception was the house in front of him which looked dark and like it had been broken into separate flats. The top flat seemed to have stuff going on but…it was as good as any. Sliding a pick into the door as if it were a key, John fiddled with it and another and bent slightly to listen and feel for the-

There.

He closed the door behind him as he walked in. It was deathly quiet, only the light from the streetlight streaming through the window above the door gave him any hint to his surroundings. There were those ugly diamond tiles on the floor that had big dirty cream colours and then deep, dank green that looked like some kind of mould. There was a grand stair case with some weird stone pattern to the side, a door leading off to the other side and then one dead ahead. He strode to what looked like a flat that might open to the street behind. Picking it was easier this time, now that he could bend to hear the lock.

What he wasn't quite expecting was for the door to slam open into his face, sending him skidding back across the hallway floor.

Xxx

Sherlock leaned against Lestrade's car, staring at the frankly ludicrous amount of security that surrounded the street.

"This certainly isn't a trap," Sherlock murmured as Lestrade handed him a coffee. "Not even a lunatic is going to try and break into that house."

Lestrade shrugged. "Better this way though, right?"

Sherlock nodded absently. "I suppose so," he said as he took a sip. "It still doesn't make any sense though. And this?" He frowned as something occurred to him. "Who phoned in the tip?"

"Donovan's on it," Lestrade said with a shrug. "And on the Stone case. You think it was a distraction?"

It had occurred to Sherlock. "No. But…" he pushed himself away from the car. "Have you checked the surrounding streets?"

"We have the house surrounded," Lestrade said in a soothing tone. "We don't need to go further than that. It's against procedure and a waste of-"

Sherlock blinked. "We," he said shaking his head. "We?" he paced a few times, smoothing it out in his head. "This isn't about us. This is…this is a trap," he breathed, looking around.

"How?" Lestrade asked, his face scrunching up in confusion. "We-"

"Not for us," Sherlock said, looking around. "And not for Moran."

"Then who the hell is it for?"

xxx

"Well, well," Kavan crooned as he stepped out and switched on the light. John scrambled up and then caught sight of blood on the staircase that he had thought was some weird pattern on the stone. "I knew Bastian would let me have you in the end," he said with a grin.

Crazy fucker.

The front door opened and closed and John didn't need to look to know he was surrounded. One, no two, coming down the stairs, two from the flat he'd ignored and three more from behind Kavan.

Fuck.

John smiled tightly. "What the hell would you have done if I'd gone to the next house over?" he asked curious.

"We switched on all the lights," Kavan said with a smirk. "Think the son of Sherlock Holmes would have thought twice."

All the lights? Did that mean… "You haven't seriously killed an entire street just to-"

But Kavan continued to smile, pleased with himself.

Oh god.

"So what now?" John asked as he glanced between the men.

Kavan stepped forward, head bobbing from side to side as if debating this before he struck John across the face. The force of it was enough to send John stumbling but not down and he glared at Kavan warily as the man watched him.

"I kind of owe you," Kavan said quietly. "Moran would never give me any power, any control. He liked his neat little order," Kavan said, disgusted by the very idea. "I figure that I should probably do you a favour in return."

Images of IOU painted across the walls made John want to shudder. "Gonna let me go?"

Kavan shook his head.

"Gonna kill me quickly?"

"I'm going to reunite you," Kavan said seriously. "With Daddy."

Xxx

Garret Stuarts didn't exactly seem thrilled to go knocking on doors but he did as he was told. Sherlock glared at him as he went, reduced to waiting like Lestrade was his damned guard dog.

"Sally, you need to work faster," Lestrade said urgently, finally sharing Sherlock's everyday pain when he dealt with the yard. "We need to know if we should help or let them get on with it," he said. Immediately, he winced and shook his head. "I meant whether they're as bad as each other, not that I'd let people die," he added rolling his eyes. "Yes, I know that they're stoned and that the video shows jack shit but-" he broke off again and stared at the sky shaking his head.

Sherlock's phone rung.

"The lights are on," Stuarts said. "But I'm getting no reply."

Odd? Maybe. "Just one light or all of them?"

"Uh…A lot?" Stuarts said sounding unsure. "The house before was the same."

"Cross the street," Sherlock ordered. "And tell me, how many lights are on."

"Uh…" There was a long pause. "All of them."

Damn.

"Though one just seems to have the hallway light on. And…" There was a long pause. "Wait…there's a note on the door."

What?

xxx

His father?

John looked away and then shook his head, trying to look unimpressed with the idea. "He faked his death in front of me and hasn't spent an ounce of his time looking for me. If you're trying to hurt him-"

"You're dead," Kavan whispered.

Wait…what?

"He wouldn't…" John blinked and took a step back, slightly rocked by the idea. "He wouldn't think that."

Kavan laughed. "My brother, he thought he could win by attacking Holmes with his brains. Such clever men, too clever for us. But I know how to make men scream and beg." He stepped closer to John. "I know how to make him lose." He reached out to tap John's nose. "You."

"And," Kavan added in a completely more reasonable tone as he pulled away. "I hate you anyway, and I did promise you that I would think of an inventive way to kill you. Dogs, I think it was, right?"

John swallowed. "You got any laying around?"

Kavan grinned and made a circle with his hands as if indicating the men surrounding John. A few seemed to grimace at the idea of being referred to as such but they didn't waver. John would probably be long dead before they turned on Kavan.

"Shall we?" Kavan asked, gesturing to the door that John had tried to pick. Shifting uncomfortably, John nodded, not really seeing much of a choice.

They walked in silence, John feeling the men's eyes on him at all time. Joey wasn't there, which was odd. Perhaps he'd not returned after finding John or perhaps Kavan had killed him because he was bored of waiting for John.

With Kavan, it was anyone's guess.

The first time they opened the back gate to the street that backed onto his grandparents' house, an officer aimed a gun at them and told them to get on the ground.

Kavan shot him and three others without pausing to think.

"Think that will draw their attention?" he stage whispered to John.

"Probably," John replied, staring up at the sky. If Kavan stopped here then Mary wouldn't be of any use at all. And if his father came around the corner...

If his father came around, he'd do anything and John damn well knew it.

"What is your grand plan?" John asked loudly. "I mean that's Scotland Yard and Mycroft is a prominent member of the government so there's also whatever protection he has. Once I'm dead and my father's dead, what are you going to do? Kill them?"

Kavan nodded, but John could see one or two of the men glance at each other.

"And your hostages will be dead," John said. "So…how do you fancy your chances of surviving this? Or was it that you just wanted us to die first?"

Kavan blinked at him and then slid his gaze to the men who were looking…well…more concerned than they had been. Kavan stared at then laughed and nodded.

"Run along," he suggested.

"What are you-" John turned to look and in that second felt Kavan grab at him.

Shit. Rolling down was probably a bad idea but it was the only move that he had. Scrambling for the gun, John tried the same move he'd used on Joey but Kavan just dropped the gun and then went for John's throat.

Gasping for breath, John scrambled at his hands, trying to pry Kavan away and get some air, but he could feel the tendons in his neck straining from the pressure.

So he kicked up and watched as Kavan shuddered in pain, his grip loosening enough that John could roll away and adjust his grip on the gun.

He fired blindly and Kavan stumbled back a little from the pathetic shoulder wound that was not going to slow him down.

On his feet, John raced for the nearest fence and jumped it easily, knowing that it was hardly a proper wall between him and Kavan but that it was enough to start to figure out a way to get Kavan to Mary.

And hope that enough of Kavan's followers had scattered at the realisation that Kavan was quite happy to die in order to get his revenge.

Xxx

" _Crime in progress_?" Stuarts read over the phone. "Uh…"

Sherlock had written that. Before, back when they'd been dealing with Irene. Only because it had been the surest way of making sure John would race into the flat rather than dither outside and risk any stray Americans getting hold of him.

" _Remain where you are_ , it says," Stuarts added. "So…should I stay here or…"

"It's not for you," Sherlock snapped. "Don't be so-"

He broke off when gun shots sounded close by. There was suddenly a flurry of activity as agents reformed and managed to slink off down the streets.

"Remain where you are," Sherlock murmured and ended the call.

Xxx

John really had never had much to do with his grandparents' next door neighbours. Apart from his grandfather complaining that the man next door had awful taste in lawn ornaments which…the fact that there were still some gnomes in the garden certainly indicated that they hadn't moved. There had also once been a bitch fest between the two men about the lawns in an argument so dull that it had been way more entertaining to watch Sherlock's face than it had been to listen.

Knowing Mycroft , they'd been shipped out of the house as soon as possible. And probably had been replaced with armed guards who would shoot John and then get fired.

Not that it would be any consolation.

His neck was killing him. Kavan had probably done more damage than John would like to admit. And it wouldn't take a genius to work out where he was, given that John was now more worried about being shot by the people protecting his family than he was being shot by Kavan.

The fence rattled and John slunk down, hidden by the bins as he adjusted his grip on the gun. He'd done this before, he could do it again.

"Are we playing hide and seek?" Kavan asked. "I used to play that with Jim. Our Mammy would go out see and it'd be him and me. He used to have a big knife like a butcher."

John swallowed.

"We took a dog apart once. Then buried it in the park at night. Along with two of my toes."

John licked his lips, trying not to shake at the idea.

"Come on," Kavan urged. "I'm gonna find you. I feel like the man that killed Bastian should go down with a bit more of a fight than someone who cowers behind a bin."

John closed his eyes and then shifted his head to stare at the gate. If he could get Kavan through that fucking gate then Mary could take care of the rest.

So he stood.

And when he went to fire, the gun clicked, useless.

"Shouldn't have wasted that last bullet," Kavan chided. "Bastian would have your head."

"He'd have it anyway," John said glancing into the house.

Kavan smiled and stepped forward, twisting a knife in his hands. "I wonder how far I can scatter pieces of you before they catch me?"

"Won't that be fun to find out," John hissed, backing away slightly and closer to the gate.

A shark-like smile was all the warning John had before Kavan pounced.


	14. Deductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments. Hope this helps in some way :)
> 
> Thanks again to chappysmom :D

"A trap?" Mycroft asked, sounding irritated.

"Yes," Sherlock said, glaring at Lestrade as he turned his own phone over in his hands, apparently unable to decide how much he should pester Donovan.

"Let them kill each other and just kill whoever's left," Mycroft snapped and then seemed to draw in a pained breath. "Mother, I am trying to have a private phone call-"

"There is something strange-" Sherlock argued, refusing to allow his brother to be distracted by their parents.

"They are the people that stole John from my house, bundled him off to face Moran, and didn't help him while he was being-" Mycroft broke off again but this time there didn't seem to be any interruptions. "You watched the video," Mycroft finished heavily.

" _What video_?" Sherlock could hear his father asking in the background.

"Tell them to go away, they're slowing everything down," Sherlock snapped.

"Would that I could," Mycroft replied. "Evidently, father feels he is the King in his castle and is therefore pestering me. That along with the fact that my own damned agents won't let me leave this room."

Sherlock let out a long breath. "You're of no help," he muttered down the phone before ending the call. Mycroft did not cope well with cabin fever.

Trap. Why was Kevin Moriarty so intent on trapping the informant? Was it power? Was he more concerned with a network than they had previously thought?

"You've got Molly Hooper safe?" Sherlock asked Lestrade as he scrubbed a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, she's at the station with Sally."

"I've missed something," Sherlock snarled. "I know I have. Moriarty's younger brother, likely abused by him and unhinged because of it. Early signs of violence, taken by Moran, trained by him and kept on the leash. He kills Moran-"

"Why him?" Lestrade asked.

"Occam's razor," Sherlock replied absently. "The simplest explanation is usually the correct one."

"So…he waits for years after his brother dies to kill his mentor and come after you?"

"I was outed by the press as being alive," Sherlock said tapping his fingers. "That fits."

"But the rest doesn't so…maybe that isn't it."

Sherlock blinked at him in surprise.

"Take yourself out of the equation," Lestrade said. "It worked well last time."

"Well then…if someone else...then Kevin Moriarty is after Moran's killer."

Oh.

"And tormenting me on the side?" Sherlock continued, and then shook his head. "That doesn't-"

There was the sound of wood splintering and suddenly both Scotland Yard and the agents were shouting as two, no four, figures appeared from the house next door to his parents', the wooden gate that separated the houses having apparently collapsed under their weight.

He and Lestrade paused in their conversation, watching.

"Down on the-"

The agent never finished, a shot firing and knocking him to the floor. There seemed to be some sort of cavalry and Lestrade swore, opening the car door and then shoving Sherlock down behind it.

"That will hardly stop a bullet," Sherlock muttered.

"They have easier targets," Lestrade replied as he reached for the radio and started to call for back up.

"Why wouldn't they have just followed him?" Sherlock asked as he leaned his head back so that it rested on the driver's chair.

"Seriously?" Lestrade snapped. "Now? You're deducing in the middle of a gun fight?"

"It's not the Wild West," Sherlock muttered. "And as I don't currently have a gun, what would you like me to do?" He stared at the ceiling of the police car. "Why would they not follow the man that killed Moran?"

"Loyalty?"

Sherlock threw Lestrade a pained look. "A realistic reason," he said.

"Fuck," Lestrade murmured. "They're beating the shit out of each other."

"Why would this Moriarty hold such a grudge?"

"Am I gonna get laughed at if I say loyalty again?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Urgh," he huffed and picked up his phone again to dial Mycroft. "I have a question-"

"Why is there gunfire outside?" Mycroft asked sounding peeved. The familiarity of it was somewhat soothing.

"Oh there's some shoot-out of some description," Sherlock said absently. "Why would a group not follow someone who killed the alpha male?"

"Are we assuming that it wasn't Moriarty the younger?"

"Indulge me."

Mycroft was quiet. "Revenge…If the killer was not someone who wanted to be part of the organisation."

"Then why is this person alive?"

"Because it's likely to be one of the people that coaxed out John. You are going around in circles here."

Yes. Because something wasn't adding up. There was a flaw in his reasoning.

"Who would Kevin Moriarty hate more than you and me?" Sherlock snapped again. "He wants to torment us and yet his focus has changed, despite the fact that you and I are within killing distance."

There was a long silence as Mycroft pondered that.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "You're always saying that you're the smart one. Be smart-"

He froze as a wash of horror suddenly struck.

_Be smart._

No.

He dropped the phone as he tripped out of the car, reaching for Lestrade's gun without a pause and racing towards where the agents were surrounding a car.

"We can't get to them," one said as he came over. "We've got friendlies and a stray and theirs in the buildings. Nothing can-"

Sherlock ignored them, ignored the sudden panicked cries as the agents realised who he was and what he was doing. He just cleared the car when he spotted a figure on top of another one, a blade in hand that was already dripping.

He fired.

His shot went wide, catching the man in the shoulder but it made him stand. Dark hair and familiar eyes, a twisted smile that was a lot like his brother's.

"I have a present for you," he said in that strange accent as he straightened. "I-"

The words were cut off as a shot came from no-where and hit Kevin Moriarty straight between the eyes. There wasn't even time for a look of shock to wipe out the smug expression from his face.

The shots rang out again and suddenly bloody Lestrade was there tugging him down. But the shots weren't going for him but rather for what was left of Moriarty's men.

"Let go," Sherlock roared. "You don't understand-"

"Stay down or you're gonna get yourself killed," Lestrade hissed.

"It's John," Sherlock said, trying to struggle against him. "It's John-"

"John's dead-"

"A person that could have killed Sebastian Moran, been hated by Kevin Moriarty, and been of higher priority than myself and Mycroft," Sherlock corrected. "It's him, it's-"

The shock of what he was saying, whether Lestrade believed Sherlock or not, was enough to allow Sherlock to scramble lose and dart out from behind the car again.

There was nothing there but streaks of blood on the pavement.

Lost, Sherlock looked around but in the darkness of a street with shot out lamps, he saw nothing. Shocked, he could do nothing but stare at the only tangible evidence he had.

Xxx

It took Mycroft two hours after Sherlock's bizarre phone call to get out of his parents' house, during which time his brother hadn't called once.

If he was dead, so help Mycroft, he would march into hell just to scream at the idiotic man. Who sat and pondered in the middle of a gun fight?

"Where is he?" Mycroft demanded as he strode from the house, his irritation with his own people best served for when he wasn't quite so fractious. Instead, he focused his attention on a rather pale Greg Lestrade who looked fearful but not upset.

Injured then. His moronic brother had managed to injure himself. How wonderful.

"Before-"

Mycroft ignored the man and huffed at the sight of the shot-out car that was being lit up by ambulances. The injured had been moved and the dead were covered if they were unknown.

He should find out how many he had lost before the night was done.

His brother was sat behind the car, back against it as he stared down at bloody streaks across the pavement.

He appeared…uninjured.

"Are you hurt?" Mycroft asked, unable to work out exactly what was wrong. Sherlock shook his head, still staring at the ground like his very existence depended on it.

"Then…" Mycroft peered back at the police and then to Sherlock. Wondering if grief had once again hit his brother he crouched down and reached for Sherlock's shoulder. "We should go inside," he said gently, trying to ignore his own distaste for the idea.

If he were ever to be locked up during a security crisis again, then his parents had best be in Fiji.

"It makes sense," Sherlock whispered.

"What does?"

"I can't…" Sherlock trailed off and frowned at his own hoarse voice. "I can't tell if it makes sense because it fits or because…even the possibility…"

"What are you talking about?"

Sherlock looked away and then frowned again.

"Could…" Lestrade seemed to take his own steeling breath as he stood behind Mycroft. "Could John be alive?"

"No." Mycroft was appalled the man could even suggest such a thing.

But Sherlock was staring at him, as if there was a possibility, and Mycroft blinked at his brother. "Why would-"

If John were alive then…then he would have had to be the one to kill Moran. And that would mean…

Mycroft rocked back away from Sherlock, then turned his attention to the blood on the pavement. "Has someone sampled this?" he asked. "Run tests?"

"No we-"

"Do it," Mycroft snapped. "Now."

"If-" Sherlock still seemed dazed. "We never did find out what happened to Popovic."

Mycroft reached out for his brother and held him firmly by the shoulders. "You and I cannot trust our own judgement, not on this. Wait, wait until there is something concrete-"

Sherlock closed his eyes, as if pained.

"I know," Mycroft whispered as he pulled Sherlock close. "But Sherlock… why would he run?"

Xxx

"You're a mess," Mary declared as she sat on the floor in front of John. "And not even a hot mess either."

Talking hurt, so he just flipped her the finger and winced as she started to clean the gashes in his arm and along his back. "In future," she said, "Try to avoid falling to the floor when fighting."

"Yeah," John said, his voice barely audible. "Got that memo."

She threw him an annoyed glare. "Then prove it by not doing it."

The water in the sink was turning red. "You knew Kavan," John said, feeling like he should get it in there.

"Yes," Mary replied. "I did."

"You were one of Bastian's," John decided. "You and Finn."

"No," Mary said softly. "Finn was. I was…I fell for someone. Finn's brother. I was…something else," she said with a smile. "Far better trained than any of you lot. But…Moran found out and…he died from the injuries. Kavan had been let loose."

"I'm sorry," John said softly.

Mary nodded, not looking at him. "Finn's grabbed what was left out in Afghanistan. He thought it was best not to put all of our eggs into you."

"You came here though," John said softly.

Mary looked up and stared at John for a long time. Then she moved away and nodded at the shower. "In," she ordered. "I've got the pavement out of you."

Now was hardly the time to push matters.

"John?" she asked as he turned to get in.

"Mm?"

"Why didn't you stay?"

Really? "They think I'm dead," John said, his voice catching. "Didn't seem much point correcting them. The boy they knew…he's long gone."

Mary said nothing as John eased into the shower and hung his head. With effort, he twisted the shower on and then stood underneath the water; half hoping it would wash away more than the blood and dirt.

Stupid.


	15. Decisions

"Inconclusive?" Mycroft asked. "How can they be inconclusive?"

The woman seemed to shrink away from him. "There wasn't a lot to work with-"

Mycroft stared at her, his very glare seeming to make Mrs Collins' words wither away.

How could they still not know five days on?

How?

He had people on every possible avenue: spies in the city and Sherlock's network were scouring for any sign that John could be alive, that it might have been him. There was no one left from Kevin Moriarty's attempts to kill them all, and wasn't that the best reason in the world to take people into custody rather than shoot blindly and hope to play James Bond?

Sherlock had been silent throughout the whole of it, as if paralysed by fear that his fragile hope may so easily be stolen from him.

They needed answers.

Now.

Xxx

John stared at the television, watching the round-up of the report about the shootings. There had been no way to hide such a thing, but a certain someone had appeared to twist facts a little and claim it had been terrorists and a security matter.

"You got a lot of them," he said to Mary as she cleaned up the takeaway boxes.

"Yeah," she said. "So maybe you could help rather than sitting on your backside all day long?"

Amused, John stood and picked up his plate dutifully. "Contrary," he muttered under his breath.

It never failed to make her smile. "It's growing on me," she admitted. "You have a way of naming things."

"Could tell me your real name," John said as he followed her to the kitchen in the massive suite that Mary had paid for.

That made her smile even more. "I like this one better," she said, suddenly turning to him and then he was looking at those big blue eyes, and the blond curls that had been brown and then red and then brown again the first few times he'd met her.

She kept watching him, a different expression in her eyes.

Whoa.

Not sure what to do, John blinked down at her because this woman could so easily kill him if she chose to. Instead, he watched as she reached out for his arm and trailed her fingers up, her gaze lifting to his eyes as she stepped closer to him.

"Am I about to teach you one more thing?" she asked softly.

Christ, was this embarrassing. "I…depends on how far you're planning on going."

Mary smiled at him and leaned up to press a soft, gentle kiss against his lips. They stayed, frozen for a few seconds before John tentatively tried to deepen the kiss.

She allowed it.

Smiling into her, John reached out careful hands and traced along her waist as she pulled back. "Come on," she whispered to him as she tugged his hand towards the bedroom.

John grinned and nodded. Wasn't like he needed telling twice.

Xxx

"Ms Donovan," Mycroft said as he walked into the office. "May I see?"

They'd dealt with each other twice before, for the exact same thing that meant they were dealing with each other a third time.

John.

"I told Lestrade," Sally Donovan said as she steered the wheeled chair closer to the desk. "Look." She pressed at the screen. A short video, blurred and jostled, came up, more of the sky than anything.

There was a sharp swerve and then Mycroft could see the pair on the floor, but the excitement of the filmer kept jarring the screen and every time he thought he might get a clear view, the camera moved.

"Have you put out his picture?" Mycroft asked as he paused the screen on the man rolling to his feet. He had to be in his late twenties, far older than John.

"Yeah," Sally said. "But he matches an army record. Joseph Burk, dishonourably discharged for his actions during service. I need permission to-"

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft reached out and brought up the protection area again, logging on with ease. He waved a hand at her. "And the finger prints?"

"Partial, and they match Joseph's. If it was John in this video…the witnesses say he was wearing gloves."

Irritatingly, it didn't help. John had probably had the dangers of finger prints embedded into his brain from the age of three.

"Keep going," Mycroft said as he stood. When he glanced back down, Sally was staring at him with annoyance. "Do you want overtime?" he asked.

"I'd have done it without," she said, tapping at the screen. "But now that you mention it, yeah. That'd be nice."

Xxx

_In the cells, being tossed through the bars and then hands grabbed, tied in front of him so he couldn't move backwards._

_No. He needed to be alone, he needed his hands free for the gun and the lock pick._

_Joey hovering in front of him, cigarette in his hand and a grin crossing his face as he lowered the damned thing to John's arm. Everything hurt already, John barely wanted to move but he lowered himself to the ground as best he could to avoid the burn._

_"Look," Joey shouted. "Begging on the floor already."_

_There was laughter as the cigarette made contact. It was different to the thudding ache of the blows and the breathless pain. This was sharp and seemed to cut through everything, making a traitorous whimper leave his lips._

_Joey was pushed to one side and Kavan sat with a manic grin. "Let's see then, shall we?"_

John started up in the bed, trying to regain control of his breathing. Blindly, he reached out, trying to find Mary.

Nothing. He was alone in the bed.

It took him a few moments to quiet his thumping, thudding heart before he stood, pulling on his jeans that had been tossed into the corner last night and wow, that had been…different. Good.

A far better thing to focus on than his stupid nightmares.

The en-suite was also empty but he darted in and hung his head over the sink for a moment and then raised his eyes to look in the mirror.

The scars on his arms would fade with time. The pock-marked burns on his arms and the gashes of knives from training were dotted all over his upper body. Some deeper than others, admittedly. There were two bullet wounds, not deep or dangerous when he'd gotten them but enough to leave a trail upon his skin.

The leftovers from the fight four days ago were still there. His neck was bruised to hell but nothing seemed too damaged; it was certainly easier to talk now. The cuts from the knife were all over his hands, but they were scabbing over, and the few on his sides were covered with gauze. The bruises were starting to fade into an ugly green colour and the swelling had pretty much died away. Thankfully, the average person on the street wouldn't be able to see too much of the damage.

But _they_ would see it. How weak he'd been, how many mistakes he'd made. How broken he was. There would be no hiding from his father or his uncle. Every dirty, rotting secret that John wanted to keep to himself would be there, waiting to be tugged open and exposed to the world.

They thought he was dead, though. They'd have mourned, probably were still mourning, if John was honest but…they were mourning something decent, something that had still been theirs.

He stirred when he heard Mary come back into the bedroom and turned, stepping out to shiver in the doorway as he watched her pull a jumper over the vest top she wore.

"I've heard morning sex can be pretty good," he said, trying to aim for a confident tone as he watched her.

The withering look made him straighten up, slightly concerned. "What-"

"Go home," she ordered as she bent to pick up her boots.

No. Annoyed, he strode over to the bed and grabbed for his own shirt. "If it is was bad, we just won't do it again," he said, trying not to sound too…god, what, emotional about it? Mary sighed into her boots and zipped one up before she put her head in her hands and seemed to think.

The fact that she didn't correct him made his hands tremble ever so lightly, lost as to what the hell he was meant to do. Frustrated, he tugged the shirt over his head and then stood awkwardly, not sure what to do next.

"It wasn't bad," Mary said eventually.

"Glowing recommendation there," John muttered as he clenched his hand into a fist.

"God, I forget how young you are sometimes," Mary muttered as she turned on the bed to look at him.

That was… "Well, how old are you?" John asked, turning to her and then immediately regretting it when she gave him one of those looks.

"I didn't ask that," John backtracked.

"You…give me your hand," Mary ordered.

Not really sure what the hell to expect, John held out his palm and then restrained the urge to swear when it spasmed in her grip.

"You've had problems with it," Mary said. "Intermittent tremors."

"It's been fine," John said. "It didn't interfere on Sunday-"

"It's a sign of trauma, John."

That annoyed him. Yanking the hand back, John walked away to try and find the shoes she'd bought for him, not even sure whether he was planning on going outside or not.

He hadn't dared to for the past few days, instead preferring to pretend that the world outside didn't even exist. That there was nothing out there that he needed to deal with.

"You'll break eventually," Mary said, staring out of the window now. "Snap. Either become useless or…the thing you think you already are."

John finished tying his laces up and glared at her. "You are the last person in the world to give me this lecture. You started me down this path-"

"And now I'm stopping you."

"For fuck-"

"Go home," Mary snarled at him, standing suddenly. "Do you realise what you have, John? You have a family who love you, who are searching for you-"

"They think I'm dead. It's done with," John snapped at her. "I'm not what they remember-"

"And yet your father charged into gunfire to protect you."

That stopped John short. "What? He's never…well unless you count the pool-"

"On Sunday night," Mary said slowly. "On Sunday night he…he knows. He worked it out."

John stumbled back a little, not sure how to process the information.

"They've been searching for you all week. Why do you think-"

"Why didn't you say anything?" John yelled at her. "Why didn't you-"

"Because I wanted this," Mary said, gesturing between them. "Just a few days to pretend that this…that I had the same option you do. Because I don't, John. I don't have a family and now, I don't have a purpose either."

He stared at her, not really sure he could follow her issues. Except she seemed to know that and a bittersweet smile crossed her face. "We work in isolation, John. But out there. Not at the moment. You need…you have to go home, and I have to leave."

"I…" God, he was such a dick because the only things he could even comprehend were his own problems. "I don't know how to go home," he whispered. "Christ, Mary, point me at a gun or danger or a psychopath that wants me dead but…but not at home. I can't do it."

Mary smiled sadly at him.

"Yes you can," she whispered. "Because it's the right thing to do."

And god, was that terrifying.

Xxx

"Nothing concrete?" Sherlock asked, staring at Lestrade's desk.

"Nothing," Lestrade said, sounding so apologetic that Sherlock wanted to rip out his own ears. "Sherlock…look, I know it fits but…" he winced and Sherlock held up a hand to stop him.

Standing seemed like such a monumental effort, especially against the crushing weight of his dying hopes. For the first time ever he actually felt old, and just so very tired.

The taxi back was silent. Everything was silent. How was it that he had enjoyed the quiet that had existed before John had been in his life?

How had he enjoyed anything before John came into his life?

The taxi stopped at the red lights and Sherlock stared out at families that were leaving one of the primary schools. Tiny children that had bright blue jumpers and little book bags.

His son had been one of them once. And if Sherlock had known…if he had known he would have never let John grow up. Kept him small and innocent and completely safe.

Except his son had never been that, because Sherlock hadn't protected him when he'd needed it. When he was a bundle of cells that Sherlock had tried to dismiss, when he'd been a small child at the mercy of Oliver Winters. When he'd been a grieving teenager, desperate to avenge the moronic father who'd faked his own death.

When Moran had killed him.

"You did say Baker Street?" the cabbie asked, sounding peeved. Startled, Sherlock blinked and stared up at the flat he had shared with his son, where Earl Grey was the only thing left of his precious boy.

"Yes," he said hoarsely and paid the man.

His phone went as he opened the door and, too exhausted to deal with it, Sherlock ignored the damned thing. Instead, he walked up the stairs and opened the door to the flat, walked into the kitchen and took off his coat.

Earl Grey bounded up, as much as he could, and there was something wonderful in the eagerness of a dog. Crouching, Sherlock stroked the idiotic thing and almost smiled as he saw the look of glazed pleasure cross the dog's face.

He was getting fat.

The floorboard creaked and Sherlock frowned down at Earl Grey before looking up at Mycroft-

Except he was younger, and dressed in jeans, a hoodie peeking out from a thick bomber jacket. He had a scabbed cut across his cheek and others in a net across his hands. His nose had been broken at one time, maybe twice, and reset slightly wrong.

Sherlock felt his head stop and he stared, drinking in the sight before him.

"I…" John seemed to swallow. "I-" his breath hitched as Sherlock stood, not daring to take his eyes from his son.

"I just wanted…" John frowned and pressed his lips together. "I-"

Sherlock took another step towards him, and then another, and finally…

The hand he had reached out connected with solid flesh. Not a vision or a dream or hope or religion but substantial. A weathered, tanned, bruised, and cut cheek under his hand.

John stared at him with wide fearful eyes as if expecting cruel words or hurled accusations.

Sherlock dropped his hand and shook his head, and John blinked as if crushed by something. So Sherlock reached out and pulled his son to him as close as he possibly could, wrapping his arms around his boy and pressing his nose into hair that smelled strangely like roses.

His entire world blurred until the only thing he was aware of was his son, safe in his arms.

"I'm sorry," John whispered into his neck.

Sherlock shook his head fiercely. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he whispered back, his grip tightening on John. "Nothing."

"I…I thought…"

Sherlock adjusted John, trying to see his face but his son seemed determined to hide in his neck. Stroking his fingers through John's hair, he simply shushed him and let John mumble incoherently into him.

"You're safe," Sherlock whispered. "That's all I need. You're home and safe and I'm going to look after you."

The silence was long and Sherlock felt his grip become like claws because if John announced that he was leaving or that this was just a visit or that he wanted to move out and go to university then Sherlock might just bar the door and refuse to let go.

But then John was shaking and Sherlock frowned at the heaving shoulders and-

The heaving sobs were suddenly wrenched from John and his son collapsed against him. Unable to support the pair of them, Sherlock sank to the floor with John, curling over him, trying not to demand the answers he so desperately wanted and simply hold John.

"You're home," Sherlock whispered again to his son.

For now, it was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapters will be:
> 
> Safe  
> Adjustments  
> Memories


	16. Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the amazing comments last chapter and thanks to chappysmom for this. And, this time, a slightly early update because I've had good news today :)

They sat on the floor, John still curled into him. His sobs had subsided now until he was just laying against Sherlock, nose still in his neck as he gripped Sherlock's coat. Under his hands, John felt exhausted and Sherlock pressed a kiss to his hair.

"Come on," Sherlock murmured gently. "You're tired."

John let out a long breath and nodded, peering up at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and cheeks flushed as he pulled back, looking a little lost. Hating the expression on his son's face, Sherlock stood and held out a hand to John. After a moment's pause, John took the hand, wincing as he stood up.

The injuries.

"Have you been to a hospital?" Sherlock asked as he led his son through the kitchen and towards his room.

"I don't need a hospital," John said. "I was…someone patched me up."

Like he was a broken toy? Sherlock drew in a long breath at the idea and flexed his fingers in frustration. "A female someone I assume, given your hair?"

John blinked and then stopped in Sherlock's doorway, his eyes drawn to the spot by the bed where he had hidden his plans.

"I found your stash," Sherlock murmured. "Come on, you're tired."

"I'm not four," John replied without heat as he stayed where he was. "When did you-"

Sherlock shrugged, not sure why it would be important. Instead, he walked to his son and unzipped the thick jacket. Eyeing it up, Sherlock lifted it off his son and then frowned at the weight to one side.

His son had a gun in his pocket. John averted his eyes and stared resolutely at the wall as Sherlock tossed it to one side and then nodded at John's jumper. There were far more important things to deal with.

His son plucked at the sleeve. "I…"

"You'll be too hot with it," Sherlock said quietly.

Slowly, John lifted his head and swallowed. "I…I know you know," he said. "But I…don't want you to see," he said shaking a little.

He'd seen a beating, but this meant that there had been scars and-

Sherlock clenched his jaw and nodded, trying desperately not to push at John. Instead, he reached for a drawer and pulled out a long sleeved, thinner t-shirt. "Here," he said.

John stared at the thing for a long time and then took it slowly. He gave Sherlock a pointed look and…he had not thought this through because now he had to leave John alone for five minutes.

The window was locked and he doubted John was in the habit of leaping out windows. Trying not to show how much it cost him, Sherlock nodded and turned to walk through the door and close it behind him.

Away from his son, Sherlock leaned back against the wall and drew in a long, shaky breath as the enormity of it all hit him.

John was alive.

John was home.

It struck him suddenly. Sherlock gasped, standing frozen by the door and listening to the sounds that proved his son was still in the room behind him.

Food. John probably needed food. And drink. Tea, maybe.

Reaching out, he flicked the kettle on and rested his hands upon the seat of the chair closest to him. His phone had been buzzing intermittently and, when it started up again, Sherlock pulled it out of his pocket.

Mycroft.

"Yes?" he said, knowing that he probably sounded dazed.

"The point of a mobile phone is to have it on you while you are mobile," his brother snapped. "I have it on good authority that you have been at home all this time. Get your coat and get to my office-"

"You…" Mycroft didn't know, he realized. "You need to come here."

There was a pause. "What have you done?"

What had he done? "I…" he turned around and spotted John standing awkwardly at the entrance to the kitchen. John shouldn't look so awkward in their home. "Drugs," he said and hung up.

John raised an eyebrow.

"It will get him here quickly," Sherlock excused. "And…he won't forgive me if I make him collapse in his office."

John nodded, his shoulders hunched and looking very young in Sherlock's shirt. There were bumps underneath the grey material that had to be some form of bandage from his injuries last Sunday.

"Are you certain you don't need a doctor?" Sherlock asked.

"She's patched me up before," John said, edging into the kitchen carefully. "How did you know-"

"Your hair. Unless you chose to smell like roses."

"We went to a hotel," John said, his eyes dragging across the shelves and then darting to the door. "You don't…I've been in a four star suite with takeaways every night and a bed. I'm not…it's not like I've come home from war."

Interesting choice of phrase. "Indulge me," Sherlock said as he poured them both some tea.

It took another long moment. This was a new side to John, this hesitation as if he was weighing up options. Sherlock wasn't sure that he liked it. What on earth did John need to think about when it was just accepting a cup of tea from his father?

Eventually there was a nod and John slid into a chair, reaching for his tea. His eyes watched Sherlock steadily over the rim of the cup and Sherlock took a seat opposite him, still unable to keep his eyes off of John.

"I'm not gonna disappear," John muttered.

"I thought…" Sherlock hesitated because it wasn't as if he was the only one in the room who'd believed the other was dead.

"Yeah, Kavan said."

"Who?"

John blinked at him. "The man that got shot the other night?

"Kevin Moriarty?"

John stared at him and then his lips twitched. Laughter fell out of his mouth, pure peals of delight as he sat back. "Kevin?" he asked. "Jesus, he hasn't been called that in years. That's what ' those London bastards' used to call him to wind him up."

Ah. "Well…" Sherlock wasn't exactly sure how to deal with that one.

"Put it on his headstone," John decided, still looking amused. "It'll annoy him more than anything else."

"You knew him well then?"

It was like Sherlock had cut a puppet's strings and all the life suddenly drained from John's face as a look of…guilt, perhaps? crossed his face. It was frustrating that Sherlock didn't know how to wipe the look away.

He needed to relearn everything about his son again.

"Mycroft will be here soon," Sherlock said suddenly. "I forgot…you do want to see him?"

John nodded even as he seemed to brace himself.

"If you don't want-"

"Didn't want to come here," John muttered. "But…"

He hadn't wanted to come back? Dumbly, Sherlock put his tea down and stared at the cup, no idea what to say next.

"I didn't mean that," John said with a sigh. "What I meant was…this is hard. Being back here. I'm not used to it."

Sherlock considered that. "You're checking the exits," he said softly. "Listening out for sounds that signal something's about to happen."

"I-"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called as the door downstairs opened.

Nerves danced across John's face as he stood, scrubbing his hands on his jeans and shifting with a panicked look around.

"Where are-"

Sherlock stood, intercepting his brother as he walked in. There was a baffled glance thrown at him, and then Mycroft saw John.

It seemed to take an age for Mycroft to respond to what he was seeing. In the meantime, John threw a desperate glance at Sherlock who tried to smile reassuringly at him, but-

"You…" Mycroft reached for the wall and leaned against it. "Where have you been?"

John shifted. "Now or-"

"Now," Mycroft said, not tearing his eyes away. "I have had half the country looking for you. You were injured-"

Mycroft had found something then, Sherlock thought. Enough that he wasn't stunned to see John alive. But his son looked like a cornered animal at the ferocity of Mycroft's question and he opened his mouth a few times, no words coming out.

"Have you been to a hospital? Where is the shooter-"

"Enough," Sherlock said, stepping in between them

"We need to-"

"Enough," Sherlock snapped firmly.

Mycroft made a strange noise at the back of his throat and stepped forward towards John. It cost his son to stay still, Sherlock could see that clearly. He wondered if John had been just as pained when Sherlock had staggered towards him.

Mycroft cupped John's face, staring into his eyes for an age and Sherlock watched with a heavy heart as John clenched his fists, as if forcing himself to remain where he was stood.

"What I said-" Mycroft began.

John shrugged. "I know," he said, looking beyond Mycroft's shoulder. "I…makes sense now. All of it. No harm, no foul, right?" he said.

If John continued to try and brush everything off like this, they were going to have problems. Well, more than they had now. And, for the first time in Sherlock's memory, it seemed as if Mycroft wasn't helping John.

In fact, it seemed to be the opposite.

How many times had Sherlock relied on Mycroft to be the one who sympathised with John, who knew how he was feeling and what he was thinking. And now…

Now Sherlock was the one who knew. Who knew how the quiet and the safety of a place could be the most terrifying thing in the world. Who knew that keeping secrets became a matter of life and death, and that they couldn't be easily given up.

Mycroft seemed to realise that something wasn't quite right and pulled back, a strange expression on his face. It almost looked like…like disappointment.

"I'm tired," John said suddenly. "Can I-"

"Use my room," Sherlock said. "Yours is…it has been my base of operations. Your bed may be in pieces."

"May be?" John asked, an almost-smile on his face.

Sherlock nodded him at the door and John took the exit gratefully, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft alone, staring after him.

One day, Sherlock would probably get used to sensation of not being able to physically see John at all times. It seemed as if Mycroft shared the feeling as he stared at the door with the expression of one who wanted to go after him.

"Don't," Sherlock warned.

"Has he said anything to you?" Mycroft demanded as he turned suddenly, the impatient tone one that Sherlock could sympathise with. Those questions, the ones that they both had, were impossible to answer at the moment and John seemed determined to lock the information away from them.

"No. I haven't asked," Sherlock said, picking up John's cup and tipping what was left down the sink. "He doesn't want to answer the questions."

"He's made enemies. We need to know-" Mycroft started, the panic in his voice unusually loud.

Sherlock braced his hands on the sink. "If you push him too hard he will leave," Sherlock said feeling the weight of certainty behind his words. "He's not finding this easy, being back here."

"He'll adjust-"

Sherlock snorted and Mycroft fell mercifully silent. "Can you tell our parents?" he asked, not really wanting to discuss how John was going to adjust. "I'll…we'll try to see them in the next few days, once he feels up to it."

"You're dismissing me," Mycroft said, staring back at the door John had gone through.

"He's gone to sleep. Unless you plan on watching-" The look on Mycroft's face suggested that was exactly what he was planning on doing. "You have your own child to watch," Sherlock muttered as he folded his arms.

"Don't start that game," Mycroft snapped. "He is injured and in danger and we need to ensure that he's safe."

Sherlock pushed off the sink and turned to stare at his brother. "He knows that," Sherlock snarled back. "He is not a child anymore, Mycroft. He will not tell us his problems because we ask nicely or trudge through a rain storm to find him."

"He should be in a safe house-"

"Says the man who was almost homicidal in his last Sunday," Sherlock yelled. "He can choose to walk away."

"You cannot avoid pushing him because you're afraid he will leave-"

"It's been three hours since he returned," Sherlock protested. "Give me at least a week before you pass judgement on my parenting-"

"You cannot let him keep hiding things-"

"Says the man who couldn't tell that John was planning to track down a criminal network and let him leave."

That hit. Mycroft stepped back as if physically wounded and swallowed tightly, then turned without a word and walked out.

Sherlock closed his eyes and stood in the silent kitchen, waiting for the door to slam shut before he scrubbed his hand over his face.

"That was harsh."

"It made him leave," Sherlock said, dropping the hand from his face. "That was what you wanted, correct?"

"I-" John bit at his lip. "This was a mistake-" he said, turning to stride into Sherlock's room, presumably for his coat and thicker jumper.

Sherlock glanced down at Earl Grey and then reached for his coat and scarf, digging his hands into his pockets as he waited. Sure enough, John emerged, zipping up the coat and looking a little baffled by his lack of response.

"I'll call-"

Sherlock nodded.

"You seem oddly all right with this given the fight you just had with Mycroft," John said, suspicion starting to edge into his voice.

"I can't stop you from leaving," Sherlock said calmly. "Just as you can't stop me from following you."

"You're not following me," John said firmly as he reached for…ah, a draw-string bag in the corner that Sherlock had missed. His son really did make him blind some days.

"Last time," Sherlock said. "I couldn't possibly track you because it had been too long and I didn't have all the evidence. I still managed to narrow it down to two places in the entire world without knowing about the Moran connection. Would you like to test me?" The last was said with more bite than Sherlock had intended.

"But…" John licked his lips as if confused by what was happening. "You fit here-"

"As do you."

John opened his mouth and then shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. "I don't," he breathed. "I am not…I am not a good person anymore," he said with a choked laugh, eyes burning bright with tears. "I am not…" he pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Sherlock stared at him, wanting to dismiss the ridiculous notion but…"No," he said. "You're not," he agreed and watched as a flash of…of fear crossed John's face. "You aren't…" Sherlock smiled bitterly. "We are not angels, John. We've…killed," he admitted and saw John shift uncomfortably, looking away. "Stolen, broken laws. I've tortured," Sherlock admitted. "I've done things to protect you that…you'd never call me a good man again."

John's breath hitched as if to speak but Sherlock shook his head and took a step forward.

"I have failed you, so many times," he admitted. "More times than is forgivable. Your sins…they are mine. So tell me," Sherlock said, standing in front of John. "You and I against the rest of the world, however and wherever you choose. As heroes or devils, up to you. But whatever you choose, know that the no matter what, you will not be alone."

"Dad," John whispered. "They…they won't understand."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "But I do. And I will. And I know that once you have lived the way you have…normality is the hardest thing in the world." He paused, looking at his son. "But, should you need it, I can give you something else."

"I…" A single tear streaked down John's cheek as his chin wobbled.

"Try," Sherlock suggested. "If that doesn't work…there are about seven criminal gangs that I was in the middle of dismantling in Serbia-"

John choked out a laugh. "Why does that sound less terrifying than Sunday dinner?"

"You're my son," Sherlock said, pulling him in close. "Your mother's son. Mycroft's nephew. You should have seen him last Sunday. It was…I almost wish I'd had a camera."

John laughed, wet and probably snotty, and he truly was the only person in the world that Sherlock would let mess up his coat.

"It won't be easy," Sherlock admitted. "I have secrets, you have secrets, Mycroft is still trying to rule the world-"

There was another chuckle.

"And dealing with an adult son is…I imagine grounding you will not work anymore."

"You never grounded me," John said, pulling back. "And you'd fucked up my room."

Sherlock smiled, relieved by the easy tone. "You and me," he reiterated, stroking some of John's hair back from his face as the door downstairs went and a familiar voice cooed up. "And, on occasion, Mrs Hudson. Think of her as a trial run for your grandmother."

John winced.

"And if it helps, remember that she used to be an exotic dancer who was married to a drug baron."

John's jaw dropped. "You're joking."

Sherlock smirked and removed John's bag from his fingers, then started to undo his own coat.

"You are joking," John pushed.

"Why do you think she likes me?" Sherlock asked. "Those that have tasted a different life never really want normal."

John kept staring at him and then sat down on the closest chair, shaking his head. Sherlock took the opportunity to remove his coat (finally) and unwind his scarf.

"Please tell me that she doesn't have any videos that she'll make us watch," John muttered into his hands.

"If she does, we'll go seek out the Serbian mafia," Sherlock promised. "Or your female friend who likes bathing you in roses."

"She's got great legs," John muttered, a sudden cheeky grin crossing his face.

Ah. "And I assume she guided you into the realms of adult relationships with cheer."

John groaned. "I…you can't talk. You had sex with mum in a wine cellar in-between tours. I did it in a hotel bed at nineteen."

"It was not in-between…who told you that?" Sherlock demanded.

"George," John said. "He thought it was hilarious. Didn't you correct the wine list or something?"

"That…" was ringing a bell somewhere in the back of his mind. "I didn't realise you wanted a blow by blow account of your conception."

"No," John said quickly, drawing out the 'o' sound. "Not really…never really."

It was easy. How was it this easy? Oddly amused by it, Sherlock sat opposite John. "Dinner?" he asked eventually.

John nodded and then glared. "I'm not getting it."

"None of the good ones deliver," Sherlock muttered as he started to scroll through his phone.

"Hey, I'm a flight risk. You get it."

Sherlock glanced at his son and then smiled. "Well played," he allowed. "Then you can tidy your room."

"You sure?" John asked. "I'm sure there's…plot and plans and secrets-"

Sherlock met his gaze. "It's in your room," he said again. "I will not guarantee that I will answer but you may ask about whatever you find."

John nodded and then glanced at the phone. "Um…fish and chips?" he asked hopefully.

Fine.

Anything.

As long as John was back in his care.


	17. New Rules

In the days since John had been home, a number of things were made clear.

The first was that Sherlock could no longer use the upper room as his workroom. Of course, that meant that he needed to put his maps and pictures somewhere, and so the living room wall had to be sacrificed.

"Oh look at him," Mrs Hudson exclaimed fondly, as she had done every day that week since she'd found John upstairs. "Is your toast all right, dear?"

John, halfway through said toast, blinked at her as he bit into his breakfast. "It's toast," he said, sounding amused. "Even he can't bugger that up," the brat added with a nod at Sherlock.

"Oh, you made him toast," Mrs Hudson said sounding as if she were one step away from aww-ing. "He was lonely without you," she added, as if telling John some grand secret. "And you," she said, turning to Sherlock suddenly. "Don't put any more holes in my bloody wall."

Behind her, John sniggered, sitting back as if to watch a play.

"He took my work wall," Sherlock complained.

"It was my room," John reminded him as he bit into the toast again. "Probably put holes in that one too," he added.

"Honestly," Mrs Hudson muttered as she wandered into the kitchen.

"She spoils you," Sherlock murmured as he studied the map of people that Mycroft had sent over after spluttering down the phone incoherently for a few ghastly minutes. Apparently, including John in a case this soon was 'ludicrous'.

Still, he hadn't come up with a better idea of how to bond.

"She spoils you," John argued. "Is that all of them?"

"Yes," Sherlock said as he stepped back and took a seat next to John, stealing some of the toast he had made earlier. "I assume you don't recognise any?"

John shook his head. "Why would I?"

That was the second thing that had been made clear. John's knowledge was frighteningly specific. Ask him about mercenaries or war lords in countries far away, then John would suddenly become an encyclopaedia. Ask him about guns, and John could rattle off a list in his sleep. Weapons, even spy networks.

It would be impressive if it wasn't so…his nineteen year old son wasn't meant to know these things.

Ask him about networks in London, though, and he could tell you only about the men and women that Anna and Sherlock himself had brought John into contact with.

Still, it would never hurt to ask.

"They're markers," Sherlock explained as he studied the people. "If one moves, it will be a signal that something is happening. We are at a critical alert-"

"Because of Kavan?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not even the criminal world revolves solely around the Moriarty family. No, it seems more likely to be bad timing. Kavan was hardly a planner, was he?"

John said nothing but his expression seemed to agree. The sleeves of his dressing gown slipped as he scratched his hair, revealing a hint of cigarette marks that marred his arm.

It had been made abundantly clear that Sherlock couldn't ask what had happened. John's jaw would clench tight and no further contact would occur—for hours sometimes.

Still, Sherlock was starting to piece it together. Between that and the nightmares that screamed them all awake every night, he was starting to gain a clear picture.

Not exactly a pleasant one, either.

"Your phone's ringing," John said absently as he read through the paper. God only knew where that habit had come from; getting John to read anything when he'd been at school had been a nightmare most days.

Lestrade.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked as he lifted the phone to his ear.

"Look, I know that…we're still looking, Sherlock, but I have…There's a case that's got us all baffled. You know, if you want it."

Yes. God, yes. Anything to get John distracted and out of the house and to actually have a solid, real reason as to why they couldn't go his parents for yet another day. Though he'd been impressed by their lack of interference. Possibly, he should ask Mycroft about it…

Still, why look a gift horse in the mouth? More likely than not, his parents really would have John fleeing the country.

"A case?" Sherlock asked, intrigued. Across from him, John looked up, a strange look passing over his face.

"What?" Sherlock mouthed at his son while Lestrade rattled off platitudes and an address.

John shook his head and stared at his hands, flexing them a few times. It seemed easier to wait until Lestrade ended his rambling. "You don't want to come?"

The surprise was genuine and annoying. As if Sherlock hadn't waited for far too many years to have his son by his side when he worked. "Are you…you sure?" John asked eventually, one of those small smiles lingering around the edges of his mouth.

"If you're coming?" Sherlock asked, deliberately trying to misunderstand. "No, that's why I asked." He raised a demanding eyebrow and John nodded, sitting back in an almost triumphant manner. "My first proper case with you," he said thoughtfully. Something seemed to occur to him and the smile turned less shy and more…considering. "Didn't seem like it was ever gonna happen for a while," he said frankly.

Oh.

That…that was less clear: John's opinions about Sherlock's fake suicide. There was such a wealth of issues for them to discuss that they'd barely even touched upon that one yet.

"But you do want to-"

"Yes," John said quickly, as if relieved to escape the possibility of the threatening conversation. "I'll get changed."

Probably into another jumper to hide those bloody scars.

Xxx

In hindsight, not telling Lestrade was perhaps a little…well…short-sighted.

The man was waiting at the front of a house that looked like it was being renovated. Donovan was with him, her entire countenance looked peeved for lack of a better word.

That was, until she spotted Sherlock and John. Then her jaw dropped and she staggered back in shock.

"You didn't mention me, then," John said as they neared the pair, Lestrade looking over at Sally in concern.

"It…didn't come up," Sherlock said, rather wishing that he had thought this through. "Which I realise now was…not my best moment."

The look that John gave him was withering as his son sighed and dug his hands deep into his pockets. "We are this close to Serbia," John threatened with a glare.

Possibly, it was best not to point out that Sherlock couldn't actually see the distance his son wanted to indicate. Lestrade seemed to be talking quietly to Donovan before his head snapped up and he stared at John with sheer disbelief.

"You…you're actually alive," Lestrade gaped.

John smiled without humour. "Appears so," he said in a short tone that invited no questions. "He's known for days," he added with a jabbed thumb in Sherlock's direction as he walked into the house, apparently leaving Sherlock to the wolves.

"In my defence," Sherlock said pausing at the pair. "I was understandably shocked," he glared after John. "And…slightly distracted from sending out informative messages."

Lestrade stared after John and then whirled back to Sherlock. "Is he-"

"No," Sherlock said simply. "He's as far from all right as one can be. But we have to start somewhere."

"On a crime scene?" Donovan asked doubtfully.

"He is my son," Sherlock said with a long sigh. "This is how we bond. Beers down the pub aren't exactly our thing."

Though perhaps it might be worth keeping that on the backburner, just in case.

Xxx

The remains were in an old cellar. A skeleton sitting at a desk as if conducting business.

John had stopped dead at the sight and his head was angled to the side as he stared at the corpse, baffled.

"Yeah," Lestrade said, his eyes jumping to John nearly every five seconds as if to check he was still there. "It's…got us all baffled."

"I don't doubt," Sherlock said as he crossed over to the table and pulled out his kit. A glance over at John showed that his son was staying far back, arms folded as he took in the sight.

"You doing okay?" Lestrade couldn't seem to resist asking.

"Yeah," John said. "You?"

"Good," Lestrade replied as if they were having a chat over the football game. Then: "You saw the Arsenal game?"

John blinked and stared at him. "No," he replied. "Not good?"

Lestrade shuddered. "It'll make you weep for years," he said, sounding strangely upset by it. An actual genuine smile crossed John's face as he stared at the Inspector and then back at the corpse. Accepting the pause in their conversation, Sherlock took the opportunity to inhale the scent of the clothing…was that fire damage?

"Saw the Rugby though," John said. "Six nations?"

Lestrade actually perked up. "It's going all right, isn't it?"

Oh god, not the rugby. Sherlock still had nightmares about his father's enthusiasm. "Can we return to the case?" he asked as he stood back up and held up his phone trying to get signal. "I've halfway solved it while you two have been wittering away."

"Show off," John muttered as he came closer. "Male, not an old skeleton?"

What?

Turning to look at John, Sherlock narrowed his gaze. His son met that look steadily, not looking away but not giving anything away either.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "How old?"

"I just said-"

"Precisely?"

At that, John hesitated. "Less than a year," he said shrugging. "More than a month?"

"Six months," Sherlock confirmed.

He'd been in contact with corpses then, had been starting to tell the difference between sexes. Likely had learned to recognise how old a corpse was to assess the threat level of the place he was in. The more recent, the higher the threat.

And John claimed he hadn't returned home from a war.

Examining the table, Sherlock smirked at the sight of a false compartment and nearly rolled his eyes at what he saw.

_"How I Did It" by Jack the Ripper._

John snorted when he saw it. "So, a fake?"

Lestrade frowned, glanced over, and then a cheeky smile crossed his face as he took it in. "Been years since I've had one of these," he exclaimed, bending in close.

"One of these?" John asked.

"Oh yeah," Lestrade said. "Get some Jack the Ripper nut every so often. Usually when there's a film using it. Some good ones too," he said, standing up. "Ever seen _Into Hell_?"

John nodded. "The one with the prostitutes…" he trailed off and then frowned. "I don't need to sound that excited about that," he said sheepishly as Lestrade exchanged an amused look with Sherlock.

"The clothing is from a museum. It's been sold in fire damage and the corpse is six months old," Sherlock started to pack away his things. "Clear fake."

"Lot of effort," John muttered.

Lestrade still seemed more tickled than anything else. "You'd be amazed," he said. "I'll tell you a few stories next time," he said to John. John, whose shoulders were at ease and who looked relaxed for the first time in days.

Lestrade might have some uses after all.

Xxx

_Mind the gap_ the doorbell told them as John pressed.

"Seriously?" his son asked. "I mean, he seemed…weird when he came around to the flat yesterday, but this is taking it a bit far."

"Be nice to Mr Shilpaire," Sherlock scolded.

"Right," John nodded seriously, "Being mean is your job."

This…this was becoming familiar. This almost-amused attitude that was directed at Sherlock. "I may not be able to ground you, but I can still make your life difficult."

"Yeah," John agreed as a shadow appeared through the frosted pane. "If only I hadn't become immune to all of that years ago. Hello," he said in a completely different tone of voice as the door opened. "Nice to see you again."

There was a nod from the train obsessed client. "Yeah, hi. This way," he said, leading through his house that was part made of walls, part formed from miniature train tracks. "My girlfriend is a big fan," he added as he led them through the house.

"Girlfriend," Sherlock scoffed and then checked himself when Mr Shilpaire looked back, clearly offended. John levelled a 'I'm so disappointed' gaze at him, and what exactly was he meant to do with that when he knew John was simply putting on act and was secretly laughing at him?

Caught, he simply smiled in what he hoped was something akin to an apologetic manner. "You said you had something of interest?" Sherlock asked, hoping to move the conversation on.

"Yeah," the client replied, edging to his desk. "Well, see, I like trains-"

John glanced at the living room they had entered with some wariness and then an odd smile crossed his lips as if he were fond of the idea.

"And I work on the underground," their client continued. "I wipe the security footage and…" he started one of the recordings. "Look, this man gets on the last carriage at Westminster-"

Sherlock sighed and watched, more interested in John's odd…almost admiration at the simple interest.

"And then the carriage is empty at St James' Park."

What?

Suddenly intrigued, Sherlock bent closer, watching as the clips played back again.

"The train never stops," the client summed up. "And a man vanishes. Good, innit?"

Sherlock raised his gaze back to John.

Xxx

"Well?" Sherlock asked as they left the house. "How would you have done it?"

"Wouldn't," John said, frowning up at the falling February snow. "Why get caught on a security camera to disappear after that distance?"

A good question. "Perhaps he didn't intend to disappear?"

"Then how do people get onto a moving train and all of them disappear?" John asked.

Indeed. "You ask better questions now," Sherlock observed. "It's…helpful."

Suddenly, a grin split John's face. "So…you don't think someone obsessed with trains can have a girlfriend. I'm pretty sure that's stereotyping."

"It is not," Sherlock muttered, spinning on his heel. "It's…statistics."

"Nah," John said, keeping up with him. "That's definitely stereotyping."

"Shut up."

Xxx

Sherlock woke to screams.

It was the same pattern as it had been the past few nights. He got up, pulled on a dressing gown and filled a glass of water as he left his room. Up the stairs, then knock on John's door.

It took ages, always did, before John let him in. Sweat-soaked and pale-faced, he'd accept the water and sit in silence staring at nothing in the darkness but allowing Sherlock to sit close.

He'd usually slip back into sleep before dawn and Sherlock would slip back downstairs at that point to sleep or work or just stare out the window with building impotent fury.

Every single night.

Xxx

They had to face them at some point.

"There're terrorists in London," John muttered as they sat in the taxi, staring out of the window and watching London's streets pass them by.

"There are always terrorists in London," Sherlock replied as he turned his phone over between his fingers. "That's hardly a good excuse."

An almost smile appeared on John's face but vanished quick as lightning. "They've known for ages though, right? Probably old news by now."

He had not raised a moron. Slightly disgusted, Sherlock blinked at John who was doing an excellent job of ignoring him. "Mycroft told them this morning."

Finally. John's head whipped around in horror. "What? But you said-"

"He claimed he had," Sherlock said, shifting in his head. "On the other hand, they weren't nagging on our door an hour later so perhaps I should have-" he broke off and clenched his jaw. "Either way. They're aware and you haven't had to deal with them before you were ready."

The sneered breath made Sherlock want to say something but he bit his tongue as he had for the past week. Soon he wouldn't have anything left to clamp down on. How people did this on a regular basis, he had no idea. It was insufferable.

"They know now," Sherlock said quietly, choosing to look away. "Deal with them now or later but…you will simply delay the inevitable."

John said nothing for a few streets. Then: "How did they take it?" he asked, as if nervous.

"Relieved," Sherlock said, shifting again. "They…Mycroft and I didn't tell them a lot when I arrived. They will have questions." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see John wince and close his eyes.

"I told them that I believed you to be dead. That when I was captured they confirmed your identity and an assassin left seven days before Mycroft came for me."

"What?" John said, his attention suddenly snapping to Sherlock. "What do you mean-"

"We're here," Sherlock said and it was petty to feel childish triumph that now John had to wait for the answer to one of his questions. He reached for the door and eased out, trying to avoid staring at the spot in the street where he had spent what felt like hours hovered over smears of blood and trying not to get his hopes up.

The house next door hadn't replaced its wooden gate yet and god only knew what had happened with the street over.

There was a sudden, strange urge to pull John as close as possible and check that he was unharmed. Possibly because John had kept him at arm's length since the moment he'd agreed to stay. When he turned, John was looking up at the house with trepidation.

"Are Bridget and Phoebe-"

"One at a time," Sherlock said quietly. "Mycroft felt it might be best."

He could swear disappointment crossed John's face. The taxi was paid for and had driven off by the time John edged a single step towards the house.

"They're pleased." Did he really have to say this? Exactly what was going on in John's head?

His mother was probably going to suggest they return to that psychologist. And it was irritating that Sherlock couldn't think of any reason to go against it. Even more worrying, he could think of more reasons to do it.

John probably would not agree.

Striding forward, Sherlock walked up the steps and pulled out a key. There was always the danger that John wouldn't follow, but Sherlock still unlocked the door before turning back to shoot a pointed look at his son.

As if marching to his death, John climbed the steps and followed Sherlock in.

Mycroft was waiting in the living room, sitting in the chair he usually claimed as his own as he pretended to read the newspaper. His mother was no-where to be seen but his father had stood and was staring at the doorway with such intent that Sherlock swallowed back the urge to sigh.

John was likely to bolt from that look.

To his surprise, John edged into the room, every part of him showing how much effort it was taking him to remain calm and actually in the room.

Relief crossed his father's face, almost as if he had suspected this was another one of their lies. The speed at which tears welled up was alarming and his father let out a long relieved sigh.

"Hello," he said quietly, a smile blooming across his face.

"Hi," John said, still standing by the doorway. His hands were deep in the pockets of the puffa jacket that he wore and his shoulders hunched high up by his ears.

His father looked as he was about to say something and then glanced at Mycroft who had put down his paper and was quietly watching. Biting something back, the man smiled. "Shall I take your coat?" he asked.

That damned hesitation crossed John's face before he slowly nodded. Awkwardly, he edged out of the jacket and then glanced into the hall. "I'll hang it up," he said firmly. "Dad?"

Stirring himself, Sherlock removed his own coat and scarf and handed it to John as he tried to remember the last time they had been this civilised. It was unnerving.

"How is he?" his father asked as John vanished.

Sherlock strode over and reached for Mycroft's paper, taking it from him. "Like a baby bird," Sherlock muttered. "He'll fly if spooked."

"Why-" His father broke off as John returned. He opened his mouth a few times as if to work out what to say and Sherlock glanced at his brother who hadn't said a word about his theft. Mycroft met his gaze steadily and then drew in a long breath.

"How's golf?" John asked as if eager to fill the silence.

How's golf?!

But his father nodded. "It's…a nightmare in this weather. They keep threatening snow."

"Ah," John said and then looked around as if searching for something else.

Never in his life had Sherlock been so eager for his mother's ability with small talk. "Is mother in the kitchen?" he asked.

"Yes," his father said suddenly. "Yes, I'll go get her."

And then he vanished down the hall.

"There's telling them not to ask questions and then there's this," Sherlock muttered at Mycroft. Annoyingly, his brother glanced at John and then said nothing, as if accepting the criticism.

Then they stood in silence.

It was not what John needed but perhaps this was Sherlock's own fault. In trying to soothe his son and give him time to adjust, Sherlock had avoided the questions and yet now…it was as if the questions hanging between them all were merging to become a wall that none of them could cross.

"John," his mother said as she came rushing into the room. "I was baking," she added, flinging a flour stained apron to one side in a manner that was so unlike his mother that Sherlock found himself raising an eyebrow. "Let me see…oh," she breathed as she came to a stop in front of John. "Look how tanned you are."

A small smile crossed John's face. "Hi Grandma," he said as she pulled him into a hug. John closed his eyes and leaned deeply into the hold as if breathing in the feeling of being in her arms.

Sherlock was not jealous.

"And you've grown," she added, pulling back. "I told you not to get taller than me."

The smile turned into a grin. "I tried," John said with a rueful shrug. He looked as if he was about to say something else when she brushed his hair back and then seemed to give up. Instead, John shook himself and drew in a breath. "What are you making?"

"Oh…some biscuits. Shortbread and cookies and chocolate chip fairy cakes for you."

To Sherlock's amazement, John suddenly pulled her close again and buried his face in her shoulder. To his side, his father hesitated and then muttered something under his breath and walked over to place a hand on the back of John's neck.

It made John tense, there was no denying it but then he relaxed into the touch and his fingers clenched around his grandparents.

"We need to talk," Sherlock said to Mycroft, nodding to the study door. His father nodded at them and then turned his full attention to John.

Xxx

Inside the study, Mycroft folded his arms as Sherlock closed the door. "I told them to avoid questions-"

Sherlock waved him off. "That's not what I wished to speak about," he said and then hesitated. "Well…not the first thing I wanted to talk to you about."

"Then what-"

"He's having nightmares," Sherlock said.

As if that wasn't enough, Mycroft waited and slowly began to frown in confusion. "Sherlock-"

He collapsed into the chair, head over his knees and hands over his hair. He couldn't do this, he needed to stay strong for his son. To help him.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said gently, sounding…well….stunned. "Have you slept?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

He remained stubbornly silent, knowing that Mycroft would sense any lie. "He wakes screaming," Sherlock whispered to his knees. "He wakes screaming and then shuts down the moment I ask what's wrong."

"And he hasn't said anything?"

No. Sherlock shook his head as he sat back up and tried to draw in a long calming breath. "He knew Kavan Moriarty enough to know anecdotes. He lost his virginity to the woman who saved him that night and the one who probably took him from you. He was in Afghanistan and has almost walked out the door between seven to eighteen times. There are cigarette burns on his arms, scars that he doesn't want me to see…" Sherlock trailed off and tipped his face to glare at the ceiling.

"He came," Mycroft said quietly. "I'm amazed he did."

"As am I," Sherlock admitted. "Lestrade does better with him than I do."

Mycroft was glaring at him when Sherlock tipped his head back down. "You did better than I did," Mycroft said eventually. "And we are the ones that have to push."

The thought terrified him and Mycroft could probably see it. "I can't lose him a second time," Sherlock murmured.

"If he were going to go, he'd have gone," Mycroft said gently. "The longer he's home the more he will remember this is where he is meant to be."

"Or, the more he will believe that he doesn't fit in anymore and that he's bringing trouble down upon us," Sherlock corrected. "I'm not entirely sure where this martyr complex sprung from, but it's irritating beyond belief."

Mycroft said nothing but stared into the fireplace as he leaned against the desk in what was probably the least stiff posture Sherlock had seen him in.

For the first time that he could remember, they remained silent, simply being in the same room with one another and it helped. Having someone understand and not compete to come up with a solution to a puzzle that was far too complex for a clever answer.


End file.
